, 
2 


totted 


,-Jotiepfiine 


C)03 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

IN    THE    VALLEY    OF   THE   SHADOW  .        i 

A    PHILANTHROPIST 39 

A    REVERSION   TO  TYPE 91 

A    HOPE   DEFERRED 129 

THE    COURTING    OF   LADY   JANE    .     .179 

JULIA    THE    APOSTATE 217 

MRS.  DUD'S    SISTER.     .          .,     ...   253 


592771 


IN   THE   VALLEY   OF   THE 
SHADOW 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

yet,  and  the  red-and-yellow  leaves  danced 
heartlessly  in  the  wind.  A  year  ago  they 
had  gone  on  a  nutting-party,  and  Clarice 
had  raced  with  the  children  and  picked 
up  more  than  anybody  else.  Now  — 
even  to  think  of  her  brought  that  faint 
odor  of  salts-of-lavender  and  beef-tea  that 
disheartened  him  so,  somehow,  when  he 
sat  by  her  bed  coaxing  her  into  sipping 
the  stuff. 

Some  one  was  coming  down  the  stairs. 
It  was  Peter's  step  —  his  new  one  since 
last  Friday,  when  they  had  all,  it  seemed, 
begun  to  walk  and  talk  and  breathe  a  lit 
tle  differently.  Belden  hurried  across  the 
room  and  caught  him  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps. 

"  Well,  old  man,  how  goes  it  ?  "  he  de 
manded,  with  a  determined  cheerfulness. 

His  brother-in-law  stared  at  him 
emptily. 

"  It's  to-morrow,"  he  said,  gripping  the 
newel-post, "  to-morrow  afternoon.  Jame 
son  is  coming  —  they'll  do  it  here.  Jame- 

[4] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

son  brings  his  special  nurse  for  the  — 
the  operation,  but  the  other  one  is  due  at 
five,  and  you  get  her  just  the  same.  I 
told  Henry  to  put  up  the  dog-cart.  I 
don't  know,  though  —  maybe  the  run 
about  —  no,  the  tire's  loose.  Still,  it 
might  do  — " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Peter,  don't 
bother  about  it !  I'll  find  a  rig.  What 
else  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  says  there's  a  good  fighting 
chance  —  a  very  good  one.  He  says  her 
grit  alone  —  Oh,  Belden,  what  shall  we 
do  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

Peter  sat  down  heavily  on  the  lowest 
stair. 

"  Only  last  week  she  was  so  well  — 
and  yet  she  really  wasn't.  I  suppose  he 
knows.  But  it  doesn't  seem  possible  — 
I  can't  get  it  through  my  head.  Poor 
little  Caddy  !  She  never  had  a  sick  day 
in  her  life.  No  headaches,  like  most 
women,  even  —  no  nonsense —  Oh,  Bel- 
den,  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

[5] 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW 

£C  Brace  up,  Peter  ;  think  what  a  good 
fighting  chance  means,  think  of  that ! 
It's  not  as  if  Caddy  were  old ;  she  has 
that  on  her  side.  She's  seven  years  be 
hind  me,  you  know." 

Peter  scowled.  "  You're  fifty,  aren't 
you  ? " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Only  forty-eight,  and 
just  that,  too.  Now  you  go  out  and  get 
the  nurse,  and  I'll  stay  here.  It'll  do 
you  a  lot  of  good.  Don't  mope  around 
in  the  house  all  day  —  what's  the  use  ?  " 

"  I  can't  leave  the  house.  Honestly, 
Belden,  I  can't.  I've  tried  twice,  and  I 
just  walk  right  back.  It's  no  good. 
There's  the  cart  —  and  you  won't  be 
long,  will  you  ?  " 

Belden  took  up  the  reins  with  a  vague 
sense  of  momentary  relief:  it  was  some 
thing  to  do.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
fresh  autumn  air  his  spirits  rose ;  he 
found  himself  enjoying  the  swift  rattle  of 
the  cart  and  the  beat  of  the  horse's  feet. 
After  all,  think  of  Caddy's  grit ;  think  of 

[6]  ' 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW 

her  fine  constitution  !  A  fighting  chance 
—  that  was  little  enough  to  say,  though. 
Why  couldn't  he  have  put  it  a  little 
stronger  ?  Hitchcock  always  was  a  pes 
simist. 

At  the  station  the  usual  crowd  of  well- 
dressed  suburbanites  quieted  their  horses 
and  waited  impatiently  for  the  express. 
As  Belden  drew  up  into  line,  they  greeted 
him  with  a  subdued  interest ;  coachmen 
left  their  seats  to  ask  how  Mrs.  Moore 
was  to-day,  and  when  could  one  see  her  ? 
A  sudden  mist  came  over  his  eyes  as  he 
answered  briefly,  "  Very  soon  —  I  hope." 

The  train  thundered  in  ;  in  an  incredi 
bly  short  time  all  the  guests  and  com 
muters  were  hurried  off  toward  town  — 
where  was  that  nurse  ? 

As  his  glance  wandered  through  the 
thinning  crowd,  it  was  met  suddenly  and 
squarely  by  two  brown  eyes  set  in  a  fresh 
pink  face  framed  by  dark  hair  lightly 
sprinkled  with  gray.  The  second  that 
he  looked  into  that  woman's  eyes  taught 

[7] 


THE   VALLEY   OP  THE   SHADOW 

him  her  character,  absolutely,  as  finally  as 
if  he  had  grown  up  with  her.  One  could 
trust  her  to  the  last  ditch,  he  thought. 

She  walked  straight  up  to  the  cart. 
"  I  am  the  nurse  sent  for  by  Dr.  Hitch 
cock.  Are  you  Mr.  Moore?" 

"I  am  Mrs.  Moore's  brother — Mr. 
Belden,"  he  explained.  "  Have  you 
your  checks  ?  " 

"  That  is  all  arranged,'*  she  returned 
briefly.  "  I  am  all  ready.  May  I  ask 
you  to  hurry  ?  Dr.  Hitchcock  was  anx 
ious  for  me  to  see  her  before  six,  when 
the  fever  begins." 

His  nerves  were  more  sharply  edged 
than  he  knew  :  an  instant  irritation  seized 
him. 

"There  is  plenty  of  room  in  the  back 
of  the  cart,"  he  insisted,  "  the  express 
people  are  very  uncertain.  Would  you 
not  better  give  me  the  checks  ? " 

She  swung  herself  up  beside  him  with 
a  firm,  assured  motion  ;  for  a  heavily  built 
woman  she  carried  herself  very  lightly. 

[8] 


THE  VALLEY   OP  THE   SHADOW 

"  I  think  not,"  she  said  decidedly, 
"  the  man  has  started,  I  am  sure.  I 
would  rather  lose  no  time." 

He  bowed  and  started  the  horse :  he 
disliked  her  already.  To  a  deep-seated, 
involuntary  disgust  that  any  woman 
should  have  to  earn  her  living  he  added 
a  displeased  wonder  that  one  should 
choose  this  method  of  doing  it.  There 
must  be  disagreeable  details  connected 
with  it,  embarrassments,  absolute  indig 
nities  :  why  did  they  not  marry  ?  This 
woman  was  good-looking  enough.  She 
was  very  obstinate  —  almost  dictatorial. 
His  idea  of  womanhood  was  hopelessly 
confused  with  clouds  of  white  tulle,  ap 
pealing  eyes,  and  a  desire  for  guidance. 
It  was  impossible  to  connect  any  of  these 
characteristics  with  the  woman  beside 
him. 

For  a  while  they  drove  in  silence. 
Then  compunction  seized  him  and  he 
remarked  on  the  beauty  of  the  foliage. 
She  assented  easily,  but  seemed  no  more 

[9] 


THE   VALLEY   OF  THE   SHADOW 

relieved  by  the  speech  than  embarrassed 
by  the  silence.  It  was  impossible  to 
treat  her  as  a  hired  servant :  one  felt  a 
strong  personality  in  her.  Before  they 
reached  the  house  he  was  searching  for 
conversation  that  should  not  bore  her. 

As  they  stepped  into  the  wide  hall, 
where  he  observed  with  a  shade  of  dis 
pleasure  that  her  luggage  had  come 
before  them,  Dr.  Hitchcock  met  them. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Strong,  glad  to  see  you. 
Come  right  up.  On  time,  as  usual,  of 
course !  I  was  afraid  you  couldn't  make 
it.  Jameson  comes  to-morrow,  you 
know — " 

They  were  up  the  stairs;  Belden  stood 
idly  in  the  hall  where  they  had  left  him. 
He  had  had  an  idea  of  showing  her  the 
house,  stating  some  of  the  facts  of  Clarice's 
sudden  and  terrible  need  of  her,  indicating 
that  in  a  family  so  jarred  from  the  very 
foundations  it  would  be  wiser  to  look  to 
him  than  to  the  bewildered  master  of  the 
establishment;  but  this  was  not  necessary. 
[10] 


THE   VALLEY    OP   THE   SHADOW 

Evidently  she  persisted  in  dispensing 
with  his  services. 

His  hand  slipped  to  his  vest  pocket, 
but  he  replaced  the  cigar  uncertainly :  it 
seemed  not  quite  the  thing  to  smoke. 
Ought  he  to  go  to  Peter?  In  his  mind's 
eye  he  saw  the  poor  fellow  haunting  the 
landing  by  Caddy's  door;  he  had  an  idea 
that  in  some  way  he  kept  things  quiet  by 
doing  this.  And  how  could  one  be  sure 
that  the  troubled  creature  wanted  com 
pany? 

There  was  a  violent  ring  at  the  bell,  a 
jarring  of  wheels  on  the  asphalt.  The 
door  flew  open  and  the  prettiest  little 
woman  imaginable,  all  fluffy  ends  and 
scarlet  flowers  and  orris  scent,  rushed 
toward  him. 

"Oh,  Will!  Oh,  Will!"  she  gasped, 
"isn't  it  terrible?  Where  is  Peter?  Can 
I  see  her  ?  Oh,  Will ! " 

Instinctively  he  took  her  in  his  arms  — 
one  always  did  that  with  Peter's  sister  — 
and  she  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 


THE   VALLEY   OF  THE   SHADOW 

cried  a  little,  while  he  patted  her  and  mur 
mured,  "  There,  there !  " 

She  was  so  manifestly  comforted,  and 
it  was  so  pleasant  to  comfort  her  —  this 
was  what  a  woman  should  be.  He  felt 
a  renewed  sense  of  capacity,  of  readiness 
for  even  the  most  terrible  emergency. 
He  led  her  gently  to  the  great  cushioned 
window-seat  and  listened  sympathetically 
to  her  excited  babblings. 

"  It  will  kill  Peter  — it  will  kill  him  ! 
In — in  a  great  m-many  ways,  you  know, 
Will,  Peter  isn't  so  —  so  c-calm  as  Caddy. 
He  is  just  bound  up  in  her.  Sup 
pose—  Oh,  Will!" 

"Don't  cry,  Sue  dear,  don't!"  he  said 
soothingly.  "She  has  a  good  chance — a 
fine  chance,  really.  These  things  are 
mostly  resisting  power,  you  know,  and 
grit,  and  think  what  a  lot  of  grit  Caddy's 
got!" 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know !  Don't  you 
know  when  the  baby  died  —  that  first 
baby  —  and  s-she  was  so  weak  she  could 
[12] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

hardly  speak  ?  c  Never  mind,  P- Peter, 
we'll  have  another ! '  Oh,  dear,  she 
was  so  pi-plucky,  Will !  And  now  to 
think  —  " 

He  choked  a  little.  "  I  know,  I  know," 
he  murmured,  cc  Caddy's  a  brick.  She 
always  was." 

She  sat  up,  not  wholly  withdrawing 
from  his  arm,  and  patted  her  eyes,  breath 
ing  brokenly.  Little  gusts  of  orris  floated 
toward  him. 

"Where  are  the  children  ?"  she  asked, 
almost  herself  now. 

"  They're  here — Peter  wants  them  one 
minute  and  sends  them  away  the  next. 
I  should  send  them  to  grandmother's, 
but  he  won't  hear  of  it." 

A  light  step  sounded  on  the  stair.  The 
nurse  appeared  on  the  lower  landing. 
She  was  dressed  in  cool  blue  gingham ; 
the  straps  of  her  white  apron  marked 
the  firm,  broad  lines  of  her  bust  and 
shoulder. 

"  Is   this    Mrs.   Wylie  ? "  she  said  in 

[13] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

her  clear,  assured  voice.  "  Mrs.  Moore 
would  like  to  see  her  a  moment.  Will 
you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  come  directly,"  and  Sue  gath 
ered  together  her  gloves  and  hand-bag. 

<c  She's  very  good-looking — it's  a  pity 
her  hair  is  so  gray,"  she  breathed  in  his 
ear.  As  the  two  women  stood  together 
a  moment  on  the  landing  he  realized,  not 
for  the  first  time,  that  Sue  was  a  little  too 
small.  But  he  had  never  thought  her 
sallow  before. 

Peter  came  in  by  the  greenhouse  door, 
walking  slowly,  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
He  looked  old  for  the  first  time  in  his 
jolly,  persistently  boyish  life. 

<c  Those  chrysanthemums  are  all  dry 
ing  up,"  he  complained  fretfully ;  "  not 
one  of  the  blamed  servants  has  done  a 
thing  since  —  since  —  O  Lord,  Will, 
what  shall  we  be  doing  this  time  to 
morrow  ?  Where  are  the  children  ? 
Where's  Miss  Strong?  There's  a  wo 
man  for  you  !  Caddy  took  to  her  di- 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   SHADOW 

rectly.  She's  there  now.  She's  talking 
to  her  about  the  children.  Oh,  my 
God ! " 

Belden  grasped  his  hand  and  they 
walked  silently  up  and  down  the  hall. 

"  Aunt  Lucia's  coming  to-night,"  Peter 
resumed  nervously.  "  She  will  drive  me 
mad.  Take  care  of  her,  will  you  ?  If  I 
could  have  choked  her  off —  but  when 
you  think  she  was  just  like  a  mother  to  < 
Cad  all  these  years,  what  can  you  do  ? 
She's  got  a  right.  You'd  think  she'd 
have  got  some  sense  from  living  with 
Cad  so  long.  I  told  Henry  to  go  for 
her  —  and  there  you  are,"  he  added,  as 
the  cart  drew  up  before  the  open  door. 

Belden  went  slowly  down  the  steps ; 
he  detested  Aunt  Lucia,  and  Clarice  had 
always  stood  between  them. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  he  began,  assist 
ing  her  from  the  high  seat.  Her  long 
crape  veil  caught  in  the  wheel,  and  the 
numberless  black  and  floating  ends  of 
her  costume  wound  themselves  about 

[15] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

him  as  he  bent  down  to  disentangle 
her. 

"  Oh,  Wilmot,  this  is  a  terrible  day  for 
us  all,  is  it  not  ?  Be  careful  of  the  hem 
of  that  veil,  please.  When  I  kissed 
Clarice  good-by  last  Christmas  I  little 
thought  what  a  good-by  it  was  !  Is  she 
conscious  ?  You  have  muddied  the  boa, 
I  think,  but  never  mind.  Can  I  see  her 
once  more  ?  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Aunt  Lucia, 
anybody  would  think  Caddy  was  in  her 
grave !  She's  a  long  way  from  it  yet, 
thank  God  !  Of  course  she's  conscious, 
and  spunky  as  the  —  as  ever.  I  don't 
think  you  really  needed  to — " 

"  My  dear  Wilmot,  I  prepared  Clarice 
for  her  confirmation,  I  dressed  her  for 
her  wedding,  and  I  was  here  when  the 
children  were  born.  If  you  think  that  I 
would  fail  her  in  this  crisis  you  have  a 
very  poor  idea  of  my  character.  But 
then,  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  you  al 
ways  had.  Oh,  there  is  Peter!  My 
[16] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

poor  Peter  !  "  She  rushed  toward  him, 
and  Belden  smiled  sardonically  as  his 
brother-in-law  planted  a  perfunctory  kiss 
on  her  chin. 

"This  may  comfort  you,  Peter,  as  it 
has  me  so  often  in  such  circumstances. 
So  short,  so  true,  so  helpful.  c  Under 
neath  are  the  everlasting  arms  /  '  Do  you 
feel  that,  Peter  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  yes,  indeed,  Aunt  Lucia  — 
you  must  want  a  bite  of  something,  I'm 
sure,  driving  so  far." 

Peter  writhed  miserably  in  Aunt  Lu 
cia's  crape-and-jet  arms. 

"  Not  till  I  have  seen  her,  Peter. 
Afterwards  I  shouldn't  mind.  I  have 
brought  such  a  beautiful  address  by 
Bishop  Hunter.  It  was  delivered  on 
the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Governor 

,  unless  I  forgot  to  put  it  in  with 

my  knitted  shawl.  I  believe  I  did.  I 
will  send  for  it  directly.  When  my  dear 
husband  —  he  was  so  fond  of  Clarice  — 
died,  I  read  it  more  than  anything  else, 

[17] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

except  the  Prayer-book,  of  course.  You 
will  surely  find  it  a  help." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Lucia.  Your  room  is 
ready,  and  —  " 

"  Not  till  I  have  seen  her,  Peter." 

"  Susy  is  there  now,  and  Miss  Strong 
says  nobody  else  this  evening.  To 
morrow  —  " 

Aunt  Lucia  drew  away. 

"  Do  I  understand  that  Susy  Wylie — 
no  relation  at  all  —  is  preferred  before  the 
only  mother  Clarice  has  had  for  all  these 

5  " 

years  r 

Peter  winced.  "  But  you  weren't  here, 
Aunt  Lucia,"  he  argued  wearily. 

"  Who  is  Miss  Strong  ?  " 

"  Here  she  is  !  "  There  was  great  re 
lief  in  Peter's  voice.  "  Miss  Strong,  my 
aunt,  Mrs.  Wetherly." 

"  Mrs.  Moore  sends  you  her  best  love, 
and  wants  you  to  get  thoroughly  rested, 
so  that  you  can  see  her  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning,  Mrs.  Wetherly.  She  says 
you  are  not  to  let  them  frighten  you." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

As  if  by  magic  the  formidable  frown 
faded  from  Aunt  Lucia's  forehead.  She 
smiled  approvingly  at  the  nurse. 

"Very  well.  I  should  like  to  ask  you 
a  few  questions  —  Clarice  was  always 
thoughtful." 

They  moved  away  together.  The  two 
men  stared  at  each  other. 

"How  do  you  account  for  that?" 
Belden  queried. 

"  Oh,  it's  her  calm  way  and  her  voice. 
You  want  to  do  everything  she  says. 
Norah  says  she's  sure  Mrs.  Moore  will 
get  well  now,  with  her  to  take  care  of 
her.  By  George,  Will,  if  she  pulls 
Caddy  through  it'll  be  worth  her  while, 
I  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  they  always  do  their  best.  And 
they  all  have  that  habit,  I  fancy.  It's 
part  of  the  training." 

Peter  looked  up  surprised. 

"  You  don't  like  her,  eh  ?  " 

"  How  absurd.  I  never  considered 
her  particularly.  I  don't  care  for  mas- 

[19] 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   SHADOW 

culine,  dictatorial  women,  on  general 
principles  —  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  I  tell  you  you've 
taken  a  grudge  against  her,  and  you  want 
to  get  rid  of  it  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  I  suppose  I  have  a  right  to  my 
opinion,"  Belden  began  hotly,  but  a 
wave  of  remorse  surged  over  him  at 
sight  of  the  other  man's  drawn,  nervous 
face. 

<c  Any  one  would  think  we  had  noth 
ing  to  do  but  scrap  over  a  trained 
nurse,"  he  said  lightly.  "  She's  all  you 
say,  I  haven't  a  doubt,  old  man,  and  if 
she  pulls  Caddy  through,  I'll  sing  her 
praises  louder  than  any  of  you."  * 

They  sat  in  silence.  A  burst  of  laugh 
ter  from  the  kitchen-garden  startled  them, 
and  Belden  started  up  as  if  to  check  it. 

"  Don't  stop  'em  —  it's  the  servants. 
Why  shouldn't  they  laugh  ?  "  said  Peter 
quietly.  "  I've  been  thinking  it  all  over. 
If  Caddy  —  if — if  she  doesn't  get  well, 
she  doesn't  want  a  lot  of  black  and  all 
[20] 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW 

that.  It's  bad  for  the  children.  And 
she  said  the  children  oughtn't  to  grow 
up  without  a  mother — think  of  that !  " 

"  I  guess  that's  all  right,"  said  Belden 
sadly.  "  Look  at  my  boy  there  !  " 

A  slender,  stoop-shouldered  lad 
slouched  by  the  long  hall-window,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  an  unlighted  ciga 
rette  in  his  mouth. 

"  Well,  well,  we  all  have  our  load !  " 
Peter's  mood  had  changed  utterly,  to  the 
other's  astonishment.  He  seemed  gen 
tler,  more  thoughtful,  controlled  beyond 
belief. 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  smoke," 
he  added,  and  they  lighted  cigars. 

"  You  see,  we  talked  it  all  over,"  he 
said,  half  to  himself,  "and  she's  so  reason 
able  and  calm,  herself.  .  .  .  She  says 
Margaret's  going  to  grow  up  just  like 
her.  That's  a  comfort.  And  there's 
the  boy." 

Suddenly  the  cigar  dropped  from  his 
lips  to  the  floor. 

[21] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

"Good  God,  Belden!"  he  shouted, 
"  I  kept  thinking  she'd  be  here,  too  !  I 
forgot  —  I  —  Oh,  what  rot !  Do  you 
think  I'll  stand  it?  Do  you  think  I'll 
put  up  with  it  ?  Why  didn't  Hitchcock 
know  before  ?  It  was  his  business  to 
know  !  I  tell  you  I'll  ruin  that  man  if  it 
takes  every  dollar  I've  got !  " 

Belden  stared  at  him  helplessly.  Was 
this  Peter,  this  red-faced,  scowling  men 
ace  ?  As  he  watched  him  silently  the 
nurse  came  in  from  the  greenhouse. 

"  Mrs.  Moore  wants  to  say  good  night 
to  you,  Mr.  Moore,"  she  said,  her  deep, 
clear  voice  echoing  strangely  after  the 
hoarse  passion  of  Peter's  rage.  "  I  found 
these  all  picked  —  were  you  going  to 
take  them  to  her  ?  " 

Peter  drew  a  deep  breath  and  put  out 
a  shaking  hand  for  the  flowers. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
me,  Will— I  talk  like  a  fool,"  he  half  whis 
pered.  "  I  can't  get  used  to  this  damned 
see-saw.  First  I'm  all  ready  for  it,  and 

[22] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

then  I'm  nearly  wild.  And  so  it  goes — 
up  and  down,  up  and  down." 

"  How  is  she  ?  Is  it  all  settled  for 
to-morrow  ?  Hitchcock  said  that  per 
haps—" 

"  Mrs.  Moore  is  doing  very  well  — 
really  very  well.  She  was  a  little  excited 
when  Mrs.  Wylie  was  with  her,  but  she 
is  nicely  sleepy  now.  I  think  it  will  be 
better  to  stay  only  a  moment.  She  will 
get  a  good  night's  rest  to-night,  it  is  so 
cool.  The  weather  is  on  our  side." 

She  smiled  into  his  eyes  and  nodded 
gravely.  He  brightened  and  squared 
his  shoulders.  As  he  went  quickly  up 
the  stairs,  Belden  stopped  the  woman. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  authoritatively, 
"  how  is  my  sister,  really  ?  What  do 
you  consider  her  chance  ?  " 

She  looked  him  easily  in  the  eyes. 
"  It  is  impossible  to  say,"  she  returned 
gravely.  "Your  sister  is  a  very  brave, 
self-possessed  woman,  and  seems  to  have 
a  good  constitution.  That  is,  of  course, 

[23] 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW 

half  the  battle.  But  her  case  is  very 
complicated,  and  until  the  operation,  no 
one  can  tell.  You  may  have  every  con 
fidence  in  Dr.  Jameson.  He  is  a  mag 
nificent  surgeon." 

Before  her  non-committal  eyes  his  own 
fell  baffled.  He  was  more  irritated  than 
he  cared  to  own.  Could  she  not  see 
that  he  was  prepared  for  anything,  that 
his  self-control  was  as  great  as  her  own  ? 
She  treated  him  like  a  child  ;  those  pro 
fessional  reserves,  necessary,  doubtless,  in 
the  case  of  Peter  and  his  excitable  sister, 
were  wasted  on  him.  Why  could  she 
not  see  it  ? 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  Dr.  Jameson's 
skill,"  he  said  coldly,  "  but  I  had  hoped 
that  you  would  find  yourself  able  to 
break  through  the  professional  attitude 
sufficiently  to  give  me  your  real  opinion, 
which,  of  course,  you  must  have  formed." 

She  threw  him  a  quick  glance.  "  Ah, 
my  friend,"  he  thought  exultingly,  "  you 
have  a  temper,  then  !  "  But  in  an  instant 
it  was  gone. 

[24] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

"  I  have  told  you  all  I  was  able  to  tell," 
she  said  evenly.  "  I  have  been  here  but 
a  short  time,  you  know." 

She  turned  and  left  the  hall,  and  he, 
chafing  under  a  sense  of  merited  rebuke, 
conscious  of  a  foolish  petulance,  went 
discontentedly  into  the  library.  He 
seemed  to  be  continually  at  fault  with 
Miss  Strong,  but  unable  to  resist  the 
effort  to  master  her. 

The  evening  was  very  lonely  and  still. 
Peter  had  gone  to  his  room  early,  and  the 
children  had  effaced  themselves :  Susy 
was  with  them.  Aunt  Lucia  read  the 
"  Imitation  of  Christ,"  by  the  fire.  Bel- 
den's  mind  turned  unconsciously  to  the 
old  days  when  Caddy  and  he  dreamed 
out  their  future  in  the  nursery.  It  had 
all  come  out  just  as  she  had  planned, 
except  this.  Poor  little  Caddy  —  a  fight 
ing  chance ! 

The  next  morning  seemed  to  fly  by 
them  :  it  was  nine  o'clock,  ten,  eleven. 

At  this  hour  a  feverish  activity  sud 
denly  spread  through  the  house.  They 


THE   VALLEY    OF  THE   SHADOW 

met  and  passed  each  other,  hurrying, 
troubled,  secretive ;  the  servants  stum 
bled  and  quarrelled  in  their  purposeless 
haste.  To  Belden,  quieting  when  he 
could,  sternly  optimistic  everywhere,  at 
heart  heavy  and  uncertain,  it  seemed  that 
the  one  anchor  of  their  hopes  was  this 
calm,  clear-eyed  woman  in  her  uniform 
of  authority  ! 

Peter  hung  pathetically  on  her  lightest 
word ;  the  children,  dazed  and  terrified, 
ate  and  exercised  at  her  command ;  his 
own  boy,  a  strange  hard  look  in  his  fur 
tive  eyes,  followed  her  like  a  dog,  and 
Aunt  Lucia  submitted  with  unprecedented 
meekness  to  an  abrupt  curtailment  of  her 
interview  with  Clarice.  He  himself  went 
into  the  bedroom  for  a  moment,  half  un 
certain  of  the  reality  of  the  experience. 
It  was  absurd  to  remember  that  he  might 
never  see  her,  conscious,  again  —  his  own 
little  Caddy. 

He  sat  awkwardly  on  the  side  of  the 
bed. 


THE   VALLEY   OP   THE   SHADOW 

"  Well,  little  woman,  how  goes  it  ?  " 

"Queen's  taste,  Will!" 

"  Good  for  you  !  I'm  proud  of  the 
Beldens,  Caddy — Billy  acts  like  a  drum- 
major." 

Her  eyes  softened. 

"The  dear  boy,"  she  murmured.  Their 
eyes  met.  " Look  after  him"  hers  said, 
and  his, "  As  long  as  I  live!  "  He  stooped 
and  kissed  her  lightly.  "  Mind  you  look 
as  well  as  this  to-morrow  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  all  right.  Miss  Strong 
will  take  care  of  me.  When  I  think  how 
I  have  the  best  of  everything — such  care 
—  I've  been  a  very  happy  woman,  Will 
dear." 

His  eyes  filled.  He  threw  her  a  kiss 
and  went  out  blindly. 

A  hand  touched  his  arm.  "  You've 
done  her  good,"  said  the  nurse  softly. 
"You  stayed  just  long  enough.  She'll 
take  her  nap  now." 

He  went  heavily  into  his  own  room. 
Below  him  a  little  porch  led  out  from 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW 

the  smoking-room,  and  as  he  sat  lost  in 
a  miserable  reverie,  voices  rose  from  it  to 
his  window. 

"  Nobody  knows  what  she's  been  to 
me.  As  much  like  a  mother  as  I'd  let 
her.  I  did  everything  but  the  cigarettes, 
and  I  meant  to  tell  her  I'd  do  that  too, 
next  month  —  that's  her  birthday." 

Was  this  his  boy,  that  pleading,  shaken 
voice  ?  He  looked  out :  the  lad  was 
fingering  Miss  Strong's  white  apron  ner 
vously.  She  leaned  over  the  railing  of 
the  little  porch,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  tell  her  about  it — I'll  never 
smoke  another  one.  It  was  the  last 
thing  she  asked  me." 

"  I'll  tell  her  —  she  will  be  so  pleased, 
I  know.  She  asked  about  you  yester 
day.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Belden,  a  little  later,  hurried  down 
stairs,  with  a  confused  idea  of  thanking 
her.  On  the  threshold  of  the  library  he 
paused,  amazed.  Dr.  Hitchcock  sat  be 
fore  a  small  green  baize  table,  studying 
[28] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

five  playing-cards  held  fan-shape  in  his 
left  hand.  Opposite  him  sat  Miss  Strong, 
holding  the  pack  expectantly. 

"You  can  give  me  two,  my  dear,  I 
think,"  he  said  as  Belden  entered.  Look 
ing  up,  he  smiled  apologetically. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  surprised,"  he 
suggested,  "  but  I  have  been  much  exas 
perated,  Mr.  Belden,  and  a  long  experi 
ence  has  taught  me  that  nothing  so 
quickly  clears  the  mind  as  throwing  a 
few  hands  of  poker.  Miss  Strong  —  an 
invaluable  person  —  is  kindly  assisting 
me.  Did  I  say  three  ?  Yes,  of  course. 
Thank  you.  We  are  playing  for  beans 
only,  you  see." 

Belden  watched  them  curiously.  She 
sat  as  imperturbably  as  by  Caddy's  bed 
side,  her  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  her 
cards. 

" — And  raise  you  three,"  she  said. 

"Five  more.  You  will  excuse  me, 
Belden,  but  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Wetherly,  is 
a  somewhat  unusually  irritating  woman. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

I'll  see  you.  Miss  Strong — ah,  yes,  two 
pair,  queens  up." 

"  What  has  she  done  ?  " 

"She  insists  that  Mrs.  Moore  shall 
not  only  see  Mr.  Burchard,  to  which  I 
have  not  the  least  objection,  but  that  he 
shall  hold  a  communion  service,  directly, 
there.  Now,  if  your  sister  had  asked  for 
this  herself,  it  would  be  another  matter, 
but  unless  this  is  the  case  I  always  re 
gard  it  as  a  depressing  agent.  It  is  a 
strain,  in  any  case." 

"I  think  Mrs.  Moore  will  go  through 
with  it  very  easily,  doctor,"  Miss  Strong 
interposed,  slipping  the  cards  into  their 
leather  envelope  and  gathering  up  the 
beans.  "  She  will  be  fresh  from  her  nap, 
and  it  will  be  very  short.  She  has  prom 
ised  Mrs.  Wetherly,  you  know,  and  it 
would  distress  her  more  to  break  it — " 

"  All  right,  all  right.  Have  it  your 
way.  Much  obliged." 

He  took  the  cards  from  her  and  went 
out. 

[30] 


THE  VALLEY   OF  THE   SHADOW 

"  My  aunt  is  very  trying,"  Belden 
began. 

"  Oh,  many  people  feel  so  about  it," 
she  assured  him,  "especially  High  Church 
people.  She  only  did  what  she  thought 
right." 

He  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"You'll  see  she's  not  too  tired?"  he 
asked;  and  as  he  went  to  luncheon  he 
wondered  at  the  comfort  he  derived  from 
her  mute  nod. 

He  was  roused  from  the  table,  where 
the  dishes  left  by  them  were  untouched 
for  the  most  part,  by  a  disturbance  in  the 
hall. 

"  It's  the  priest,"  the  waitress  mur 
mured,  and  with  a  frown  he  checked  her 
rising  tears. 

Aunt  Lucia  bustled  through  the  room. 

"You  must  come,  Wilmot,"  she  whis 
pered  eagerly,  "  she  asked  for  you.  Peter 
is  locked  into  his  room,  and  neither  of 
the  children  has  been  confirmed.  Susy, 
of  course,  is  a  Presbyterian.  Not  that 

[31] 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW 

dear  Mr.  Burchard  would  object — he  is 
so  broad.  But  you  have  no  excuse.  Oh, 
it  is  beautiful,  Wilmot !  She  looks  so 
lovely!" 

He  followed  her  wearily.  What  did 
it  matter  ?  It  seemed  to  him  ominous, 
terrible  —  but  it  would  please  Caddy. 
She  sat  propped  up  in  the  bed.  Her 
cheeks  were  crimson,  her  eyes  bright. 
White  chrysanthemums  stood  in  silver 
vases,  candles  burned  softly  on  the  white- 
draped  dresser.  Mr.  Burchard,  in  the 
hall  just  beyond,  was  slipping  his  surplice 
over  his  head.  A  faint  odor  of  wine 
mingled  with  the  flowers. 

Belden  dared  not  look  at  her.  She 
was  to  him,  in  that  moment,  mystic,  holy, 
a  thing  apart.  He  dropped  on  his  knees 
beside  a  silvery  white  apron,  his  eyes  on 
the  floor,  his  heart  beating  hard. 

The  clergyman  entered  slowly,  the 
service  began.  It  was  all  a  murmured 
maze  to  him.  Aunt  Lucia  sobbed  quietly 
beside  him,  but  as  he  glanced  at  her  he 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   SHADOW 

caught  a  light  on  her  wet,  uplifted  face 
that  thrilled  him  strangely.  Her  deep 
responses  spoke  a  faith  and  surety  that 
swallowed  for  the  moment  all  her  little 
sillinesses  and  obstinacies. 

The  solemn  words  grew  in  intensity, 
the  candles  flickered  audibly  in  the  sacred 
hush.  The  clergyman  moved  toward 
the  bed,  and  they  heard  Caddy's  breath 
draw  out  in  a  deep,  shuddering  sob ;  her 
teeth  chattered  against  the  cup. 

Belden  set  his  jaw;  it  was  cruel,  brutal! 
They  were  killing  her.  His  clinched  fist 
moved  blindly  toward  his  neighbor:  he 
touched  her  hand  and  gripped  it  fiercely. 

In  front  of  him  on  the  wall  hung  a 
large  photograph  of  Billy's  base-ball  nine 
in  full  uniform.  He  could  have  drawn 
it  from  memory,  afterwards.  Billy,  he 
remembered,  was  a  great  catcher.  He 
held  hard  to  that  cool,  firm  hand. 

" — be  amongst  you  and  remain  with  you 
always.  Amen."  There  was  a  little  stir. 
The  hand  was  drawn  from  his. 

[33] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

"Come,  now,"  whispered  Aunt  Lucia, 
and  he  walked,  stumbling  and  stiff  from 
kneeling,  from  the  room.  At  the  door 
he  glanced  a  second  backward,  but  only 
Dr.  Hitchcock  was  to  be  seen,  bending 
over  the  bed.  Miss  Strong  had  already 
taken  away  candles  and  flowers,  and 
Caddy's  triple  mirror  was  back  on  the 
dresser. 

Mr.  Burchard,  in  his  long  black  cas 
sock,  offered  his  hand  cordially. 

"  I  am  glad  you  could  be  with  us,  Mr. 
Belden,"  he  began,  but  the  other  broke 
in  : 

"If  you  have  tired  her,  if  this  — 
makes  a  difference — "  he  muttered 
fiercely,  "  you  will  have  me  to  settle 
with.  Mind  that !  " 

He  hurried  down  the  stairs,  his  hands 
still  clinched.  Peter  was  starting  off  with 
the  road-wagon.  They  nodded  shortly 
at  each  other. 

From  then  the  time  raced  on  incredi 
bly.  The  great  surgeon,  with  his  two 
assistants,  was  in  the  hall ;  he  was  on  the 

[34] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

stairs  ;  he  was  lost  to  sight.  There  was 
a  momentary  rush  and  bustle,  the  closing 
of  a  door.  Peter  came  out,  whispering 
to  himself,  and  disappeared  somewhere. 
The  others,  clustered  in  the  library,  spoke 
fitfully. 

"  They  carried  her  on  a  cot  into  the 
west  room,"  somebody  murmured  close 
to  Belden.  It  was  little  Margaret.  "  I 
saw  her.  She  waved  her  hand  at  me  !  I 
threw  her  a  kiss.  Miss  Strong  smiled 
at  me  —  I  love  Miss  Strong." 

Aunt  Lucia  sobbed.  Susy  bit  her  lip 
and  played  with  Billy's  unwilling  hand. 

"  Where's  my  father  ?  Where's  he 
gone  ?  "  he  demanded.  cc  Who's  that 
other  woman  with  the  apron  ?  " 

Miss  Strong  appeared  at  the  door. 
"  She  has  taken  the  ether  very  well  in 
deed  ;  they  are  much  pleased,"  she  said 
softly.  They  hung  on  her  words,  they 
overwhelmed  her  with  questions.  She 
soothed  them  like  children. 

It  grew  suddenly  clear  to  Belden  that 
Caddy  would  die.  It  must  be  so.  He 

[35] 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

wondered  that  they  had  hoped  for  any 
thing  else.  He  was  sorry  for  them  all. 
He  watched  indifferently  while  Miss 
Strong  led  the  children  away  —  he  knew 
she  was  taking  them  to  their  father. 
Later,  while  Aunt  Lucia,  on  her  knees, 
read  through  streaming  eyes  from  her 
prayer-book,  and  Susy  talked  nervously 
to  him,  he  watched  the  firm,  full  figure 
of  the  woman  pacing  up  and  down  the 
piazza  outside,  her  arm  drawn  through 
his  restless  boy's. 

"  God  bless  her !  "  he  said  aloud. 

Afterwards  he  could  never  recall  the  con 
secutive  happenings  of  the  end.  He 
saw  only  separate  pictures. 

In  one,  a  strange  young  man  opened 
the  door  and  said  the  words  that  fright 
ened  them  with  delight. 

In  another,  a  drawn,  old,  white-faced 
man  —  surely  not  Dr.  Jameson  —  leaned 
weakly  in  a  chair,  while  a  woman  handed 
him  a  tiny  glass  of  colored  liquid. 

[36] 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   SHADOW 

In  yet  another,  a  father  hid  his  face 
in  his  little  daughter's  bosom  and  sobbed, 
with  shaking  shoulders  ;  his  tall  son 
smiled  bravely  over  the  bent  head. 

In  the  last  picture  he  himself  bore  a 
part ;  for  when  he  came  upon  his  shy, 
suspicious  boy  clasped  in  the  kind  arms 
of  the  woman  whose  brown  eyes,  once 
seen,  had  haunted  his  thoughts  ever  since, 
he  gathered  them  both  to  him  irresistibly. 
As  he  laid  his  cheek  against  hers,  he  felt 
that  it  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  It  lies  with  you  now,"  he  whispered 
in  her  ear,  "  to  give  her  back  to  us,  well 
and  strong.  He  says  you  can.  After 
wards  — " 

She  drew  away  from  him. 

"I  —  I  must  go.  I  am  so  glad  —  I 
will  do  my  best,"  she  answered  unsteadily. 

He  caught  her  hand.  "And  after 
wards  ?  "  he  repeated,  a  growing  mastery 
in  his  voice.  She  tried  to  meet  his  eyes, 
but  her  own  fell,  conquered. 

[37] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


T  SUSPECTED  him  from  the  first," 
JL  said  Miss  Gould,  with  some  irritation, 
to  her  lodger.  She  spoke  with  irritation 
because  of  the  amused  smile  of  the  lodger. 
He  bowed  with  the  grace  that  character 
ized  all  his  lazy  movements. 

"He  looked  very  much  like  that  Tom 
Waters  that  I  had  at  the  Reformed 
Drunkards*  League  last  year.  I  even 
thought  he  was  Tom — " 

"  I  do  not  know  Tom  ? "  hazarded 
the  lodger. 

"  No.  I  don't  know  whether  I  ever 
mentioned  him  to  you.  He  came  twice 

[41] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


to  the  League,  and  we  were  really  quite 
hopeful  about  him,  and  the  third  time 
he  asked  to  have  the  meeting  at  his 
house.  We  thought  it  a  great  sign  — 
the  best  of  signs,  in  fact.  So  as  a  great 
favor  we  went  there  instead  of  meeting 
at  the  Rooms.  I  was  a  little  late  —  I 
lost  the  way  —  and  when  I  got  there  I 
heard  a  great  noise  as  if  they  were  sing 
ing  different  songs  at  the  same  time.  I 
hurried  in  to  lead  them  —  they  get  so 
mixed  in  the  singing  —  and  —  it  makes 
me  blush  now  to  think  of  it! —  the  wretch 
had  invited  them  all  early,  and  —  and 
they  were  all  intoxicated  ! 

"  I  am  sorry  I  told  you,"  she  added 
with  dignity ;  for  the  lodger,  in  an  en 
deavor  to  smile  sympathetically,  had  lost 
his  way  and  was  convulsed  with  a  mirth 
entirely  unregretful. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  he  murmured 
politely.  "  It  is  a  delightful  story.  I 
would  not  have  missed  it  —  a  choir  of 
reformed  drunkards  !  But  do  you  not, 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


my  dear  Miss  Gould,  perceive  in  these 
little  setbacks  a  warning  against  further 
attempts  ?  Do  you  still  attend  the 
League  ?  It  is  not  possible  !  " 

"Possible?"  echoed  his  visitor;  for 
owing  to  certain  recent  and  untoward 
circumstances,  Miss  Gould  was  half  re 
clining  in  her  lodger's  great  Indian  chair, 
sipping  a  glass  of  his  '49  port.  "  Indeed 
I  do !  They  had  every  one  of  them  to 
be  reformed  all  over  again  !  It  was  most 
disgraceful !  " 

Her  lodger  checked  a  rising  smile,  and 
leaned  solicitously  toward  her,  regarding 
her  firm,  fine-featured  face  with  flatter 
ing  attention. 

"  Are  you  growing  stronger  ?  Can  I 
bring  you  anything  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Miss  Gould's  color  rose,  half  with  anger 
at  her  weakness  of  body,  half  with  a  vexed 
consciousness  of  his  amusement. 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  she  returned  coldly, 
"  I  am  ashamed  to  have  been  so  weak- 
minded.  I  must  go  now  and  tell  Henry 

[43] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


to  pile  the  wood  again  in  the  east  corner. 
There  will  probably  come  another  tramp 
very  soon  —  they  are  very  prevalent  this 
month,  I  hear." 

Her  lodger  left  his  low  wicker  seat  — 
a  proof  of  enormous  excitement  —  and 
frowned  at  her. 

"  Do  you  seriously  mean,  Miss  Gould, 
that  you  are  going  to  run  the  risk  of  an 
other  such  —  such  catastrophe?  It  is 
absurd.  I  cannot  believe  it  of  you  !  Is 
there  no  other  way  — " 

But  he  had  been  standing  a  long  while, 
it  occurred  to  him,  and  he  retired  to  the 
chair  again.  A  splinter  of  wood  on  his 
immaculate  white  flannel  coat  caught  his 
eye,  and  a  slow  smile  spread  over  his 
handsome,  lazy  face.  It  grew  and  grew 
until  at  last  a  distinct  chuckle  penetrated 
to  the  dusky  corner  where  the  Indian 
chair  leaned  back  against  dull  Oriental 
draperies.  Its  occupant  attempted  to 
rise,  her  face  stern,  her  mouth  unrelent 
ing.  He  was  at  her  side  instantly. 

[44] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


"  Take  my  arm  —  and  pardon  me  !  " 
he  said  with  an  irresistible  grace.  "It 
is  only  my  fear  for  your  comfort,  you 
know,  Miss  Gould.  I  cannot  bear  that 
you  should  be  at  the  mercy  of  every 
drunken  fellow  that  wishes  to  impose  on 
you  ! " 

As  she  crossed  the  hall  that  separated 
her  territory  from  his,  her  fine,  full  figure 
erect,  her  dark  head  high  in  the  air,  a 
whimsical  regret  came  over  him  that  they 
were  not  younger  and  more  foolish. 

"  I  should  certainly  marry  her  to  re 
form  her,"  he  said  to  the  birch  log  that 
spluttered  on  his  inimitable  colonial  fire- 
dogs.  And  then,  as  the  remembrance  of 
the  events  of  the  morning  came  to  him, 
he  laughed  again. 

He  had  been  disturbed  at  his  leisurely 
coffee  and  roll  by  a  rapid  and  ceaseless 
pounding,  followed  by  a  violent  rattling, 
and  varied  by  stifled  cries  apparently 
from  the  woodshed.  The  din  seemed 
to  come  from  the  lower  part  of  the  house, 

[45] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


and  after  one  or  two  futile  appeals  to  the 
man  who  served  as  valet,  cook,  and 
butler  in  his  bachelor  establishment,  he 
decided  that  he  was  alone  in  his  half  of 
the  house,  and  that  the  noise  came  from 
Miss  Gould's  side.  He  strolled  down  the 
beautiful  winding  staircase,  and  dragged 
his  crimson  dressing-gown  to  the  top  of 
the  cellar  stairs,  the  uproar  growing  mo 
mentarily  more  terrific.  Half-way  down 
the  whitewashed  steps  he  paused,  viewing 
the  remarkable  scene  below  him  with  in 
terest  and  amazement.  The  cemented 
floor  was  literally  covered  with  neatly 
chopped  kindling-wood,  which  rose  as  in 
a  tide  under  the  efforts  of  a  large  red- 
faced  man  who,  with  the  regularity  of  a 
machine,  stooped,  grasped  a  billet  in  either 
hand,  shook  them  in  the  face  of  Miss 
Gould,  who  cowered  upon  a  soap-box  at 
his  side,  and  flung  them  on  the  floor. 
From  the  woodhouse  near  the  cellar 
muffled  shouts  were  heard  through  a 
storm  of  blows  on  the  door.  From  the 
rattling  of  this  door,  and  the  fact  that 

[46] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


the  red-faced  man  aimed  every  third  stick 
at  it,  the  observer  might  readily  conclude 
that  some  one  desirous  of  leaving  the 
woodhouse  was  locked  within  it. 

For  a  moment  the  spectator  on  the 
stairs  stood  stunned.  The  noise  was 
deafening  ;  the  appearance  of  the  man, 
whose  expression  was  one  of  settled  rage 
but  whose  actions  were  of  the  coldest  regu 
larity,  was  most  bewildering,  partially  ob 
scured  as  it  was  by  the  flying  billets  of 
wood ;  the  mechanical  attempts  of  Miss 
Gould  to  rise  from  the  soap-box,  inva 
riably  checked  by  a  fierce  brandishing  of 
the  stick  just  taken  from  the  lessening 
pile,  were  at  once  startling  and  fascinating, 
inasmuch  as  she  was  methodically  waved 
back  just  as  her  knees  had  unbent  for 
the  trial,  and  as  methodically  essayed  her 
escape  again,  alternately  rising  with  dig 
nity  and  sinking  back  in  terror. 

The  red  dressing-gown  advanced  a 
step,  and  met  her  gaze.  Dignity  and  ter 
ror  shifted  to  relief. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Welles  !  "  she  gasped.     Her 

[47] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


lodger  girded  up  his  robe  de  chambre  with 
its  red  silk  cord  and  advanced  with  decision 
through  the  chaos  of  birch  and  hickory. 
A  struggle,  sharp  but  brief,  and  he  turned 
to  find  Miss  Gould  offering  a  coil  of 
clothes-rope  with  which  to  bind  the  con 
quered,  whom  conflict  had  sobered,  for 
he  made  no  resistance. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  such  idiotic 
actions  ?  "  the  squire  of  dames  demanded, 
as  he  freed  the  maddened  Henry  from 
his  durance  vile  in  the  woodhouse  and 
confronted  the  red-faced  man,  who  had 
not  uttered  a  word. 

He  cast  a  baffled  glance  at  Miss  Gould 
and  a  triumphant  smile  at  Henry  before 
replying.  Then,  disdaining  the  lady's 
righteous  indignation  and  the  hired  man's 
threatening  gestures,  he  faced  the  gentle 
man  in  the  scarlet  robe  and  spoke  as  man 
to  man. 

"  Gov'nor,"  he  said  with  somewhat 
thickened  speech,  "  I  come  here  an'  I 
asked  for  a  meal.  An'  she  tol'  me  would 

[48] 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


I  work  fer  it?  An'  I  said  yes.  An'  she 
come  into  this  ol'  vault  of  a  suller,  an'  she 
pointed  to  that  ol'  heap  o'  wood,  an' 
she  tol'  me  ter  move  it  over  ter  that 
corner.  An'  I  done  so  fer  half  an  hour. 
An'  I  says  to  that  blitherin'  fool  over 
there,  who  was  workin'  in  that  ol'  wood- 
house,  what  the  devil  did  she  care  w'ich 
corner  the  darned  stuff  was  in  ?  An'  he 
says  that  she  didn't  care  a  hang,  but  that 
she'd  tell  the  next  man  that  come  along 
to  move  it  back  to  where  I  got  it  from ; 
he  said  'twas  a  matter  er  principle  with 
her  not  to  give  a  man  a  bite  fer  nothin'  ! 
So  I  shut  him  in  his  ol'  house,  an'  w'en 
she  come  down  I  gave  her  a  piece  of  my 
mind.  I  don't  mind  a  little  work,  mis 
ter,  but  when  it  come  to  shufflin'  kind- 
lin's  round  in  this  ol'  tomb  fer  half  an 
hour  an'  makin'  a  fool  o'  myself  fer 
nothin',  I  got  my  back  up.  My  time 
ain't  so  vallyble  to  me  as  'tis  to  some, 
gov'nor,  but  it's  worth  a  damn  sight 
more'n  that ! " 

[49] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


Miss  Gould's  lodger  shuddered  as  he 
remembered  the  quarter  he  had  surrepti 
tiously  bestowed  upon  the  man,  and  the 
withering  scorn  that  would  be  his  portion 
were  the  weakness  known.  He  smiled 
as  he  recalled  the  scene  in  the  cellar  when 
he  had  helped  Miss  Gould  up  the  stairs 
and  returned  to  soothe  Henry,  who  re 
gretted  that  he  had  left  one  timber  of  the 
woodhouse  upon  another. 

"  Though  I'm  bound  to  say,  Mr. 
Welles,  that  I  see  how  he  felt.  I've 
often  felt  like  a  fool  explainin'  how  they 
was  to  move  that  wood  back  an'  forth. 
It  does  seem  strange  that  Miss  Gould 
has  to  do  it  that  way.  Give  'em  some- 
thin'  an'  let  'em  go,  I  say  !  " 

It  was  precisely  his  own  view  —  but 
how  fundamentally  immoral  the  position 
was  he  knew  so  well !  He  recalled  Miss 
Gould's  lectures  on  the  subject,  miracles 
of  eloquence  and  irrefutably  correct  in 
deductions  that  interested  him  not  nearly 
so  much  as  the  lecturer. 

"  So  firm,  so  positive,  so  wholesome  !  " 

[50] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


he  would  murmur  to  himself  in  tacit  apol 
ogy  for  the  instructive  hours  spent  before 
their  common  ground,  the  great  fireplace 
in  the  central  hall.  He  never  sat  there 
without  remembering  their  first  interview : 
her  resentment  at  an  absolutely  inexcusa 
ble  intrusion  slowly  melting  before  his 
exquisite  appreciation  of  every  line  and 
corner  of  the  old  colonial  homestead ; 
her  reserve  waning  at  every  touch  of  his 
irresistible  courtesy,  till,  to  her  own  open 
amazement,  she  rose  to  conduct  this  con 
noisseur  in  antiquities  through  the  rooms 
whose  delights  he  had  perfectly  foreseen, 
he  assured  her,  from  the  modelling  of 
the  front  porch  ;  her  utter  and  instanta 
neous  refusal  to  consider  for  a  second  his 
proposal  to  lodge  a  stranger  in  half  of 
her  father's  house ;  and  the  nai've  and 
conscientious  struggle  with  her  principles 
when,  with  a  logic  none  the  less  forcible 
because  it  was  so  gracefully  developed,  he 
convinced  her  that  her  plain  duty  lay 
along  the  lines  of  his  choice. 

For  as  a  philanthropist  what  could  she 

[5*] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


do  ?  Here  were  placed  in  her  hands 
means  she  could  not  in  conscience  over 
look.  Rapidly  translating  his  dollars 
into  converts,  he  juggled  them  before  her 
dazzled  eyes  ;  he  even  hinted  delicately 
at  Duty,  with  that  exact  conception  of 
the  requirements  of  the  stern  daughter 
felt  by  none  so  keenly  as  those  who  sys 
tematically  avoid  her. 

His  good  genius  prompted  him  to 
refer  casually  to  soup-kitchens.  Now 
soup-kitchens  were  the  delight  of  Miss 
Gould's  heart ;  toward  the  establishment 
of  a  soup-kitchen  she  had  looked  since 
the  day  when  her  father's  death  had  left 
her  the  double  legacy  of  his  worldly  goods 
and  his  unworldly  philanthropy. 

Visions  of  dozens  of  Bacchic  revellers, 
riotous  no  more,  but  seated  temperately 
each  before  his  steaming  bowl,  rose  to  her 
delighted  eyes ;  she  saw  in  fancy  the 
daughters  and  nieces  of  the  reformed  in 
smiles  and  white  aprons  ladling  the  nu 
tritious  and  attractive  compound,  earning 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


thus  an  honest  wage ;  she  saw  a  neatly 
balanced  account-book  and  a  triumphant 
report ;  she  saw  herself  the  respected  and 
deprecatory  idol  of  a  millennial  village. 
She  wavered,  hesitated,  and  was  lost. 

That  very  evening  saw  the  establish 
ment  of  a  second  menage  in  the  north 
side  of  the  house,  and  though  a  swift  re 
gret  chilled  her  manner  for  weeks,  she 
found  herself  little  by  little  growing  in 
terested  in  her  lodger,  and  conscious  of 
an  increasing  desire  to  benefit  him,  an 
irritated  longing  to  influence  him  for 
good,  to  turn  him  from  the  butterfly 
whims  of  a  pretended  invalid  to  an  ap 
preciation  of  the  responsibilities  of  life. 

For  in  all  her  well-ordered  forty  years 
Miss  Gould  had  never  seen  so  indolent, 
so  capricious,  so  irresponsible  a  person. 
That  a  man  of  easy  means,  fine  educa 
tion,  sufficient  health,  and  gray  hair 
should  have  nothing  better  to  do  than 
collect  willow-ware  and  fire-irons,  read 
the  magazines,  play'  the  piano,  and  stroll 

[53] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


about  in  the  sun  seemed  to  her  nothing 
less  than  horrible. 

Each  day  that  added  some  new  trea 
sure  to  his  perfectly  arranged  rooms,  and 
in  consequence  some  new  song  to  his 
seductive  repertoire,  left  a  new  sting  in 
her  soul.  She  had  been  influencing 
somebody  or  something  all  her  life.  She 
had  been  educating  and  directing  and 
benefiting  till  she  was  forced  to  be  grate 
ful  to  that  providential  generosity  that 
caused  new  wickedness  and  ignorance  to 
spring  constantly  from  this  very  soil  she 
had  cleared;  for  if  one  reform  had  been 
sufficient  she  would  long  since  have  been 
obliged  to  leave  the  little  village  for 
larger  fields.  She  had  ministered  to  the 
starved  mind  as  to  the  stunted  body ; 
the  idle  and  dissolute  quaked  before  her. 
And  yet  here  in  her  own  household, 
across  her  hall,  lived  the  epitome  of  use- 
lessness,  indolence,  selfishness,  and —  she 
was  forced  to  admit  it  —  charm.  What 
corresponded  to  a  sense  of  humor  in  her 

[54] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


caught  at  the  discrepancy  and  worried 
over  it. 

What !  was  she  not  competent,  then,  to 
influence  her  equals  ?  For  in  everything 
but  moral  stamina  she  was  forced  to 
admit  that  her  lodger  was  her  equal,  if 
no  more.  Widely  travelled,  well  read, 
well  born,  talented,  handsome,  deferen 
tial  —  but  persistently  amused  at  her, 
irrevocably  indolent,  hopelessly  selfish. 

With  the  firm  intention  of  turning  the 
occasions  to  his  benefit,  she  had  finally 
accepted  his  regular  and  courteous  invi 
tation  to  take  tea  with  him,  and  had 
watched  his  graceful  management  of  sam 
ovar  and  tea-cup  with  open  disfavor. 
"  A  habit  picked  up  in  England,"  he 
had  assured  her,  when,  with  the  frank 
ness  characteristic  of  her,  she  had  criti 
cised  him  for  the  effeminacy.  And  his 
smiling  explanation  had  sent  a  sudden 
flush  across  her  smooth,  firm  cheeks. 
Was  she  provincial  ?  Did  she  seem  to 
him  a  New  England  villager  and  nothing 

[55] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


more  ?  She  bit  her  lip,  and  the  appeal 
she  had  planned  went  unspoken  that  day. 

But  her  desire  could  not  rest,  and  as  to 
her  strict  notions  the  continual  visits 
from  her  side  to  his  seemed  unsuitable, 
she  gave  in  self-defence  her  own  invita 
tion,  and  Wednesday  and  Saturday  after 
noons  saw  her  lodger  across  the  hall 
drinking  her  own  tea  with  wine  and  plum- 
cake  by  the  shining  kettle. 

If  she  could  command  his  admiration  in 
no  other  way,  she  felt,  she  might  safely 
rely  on  his  deferential  respect  for  the 
owner  of  that  pewter  tea-service — velvety, 
shimmering,  glistening  dully,  with  shapes 
that  vaguely  recalled  Greek  lamps  and 
Etruscan  urns.  And  she  piled  wedges  of 
ambrosial  plum-cake  with  yellow  frosting 
on  sprigged  china,  and  set  out  wine  in 
her  great-grandfather's  long-necked  de 
canter,  and,  with  what  she  considered  a 
gracious  tact,  overlooked  the  flippancy  of 
her  guest's  desultory  conversation,  and 
sincerely  tried  to  discover  the  humorous 

[56] 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


quality  in  her  conversation  that  forced  a 
subdued  chuckle  now  and  then  from  her 
listener. 

She  confided  most  of  her  schemes  to 
him,  sometimes  unconsciously,  and  grew 
to  depend  more  than  she  knew  upon  his 
common  sense  and  experience ;  for, 
though  openly  cynical  of  her  works,  he 
would  give  her  what  she  often  realized  to 
be  the  best  of  practical  advice,  and  his 
amusing  generalities,  though  to  her  mind 
insults  to  humanity,  had  been  so  bitterly 
proved  true  that  she  looked  fearfully  to 
see  his  lightest  adverse  prophecy  fulfilled. 

After  a  cautious  introduction  of  the 
subject  by  asking  his  advice  as  to  the 
minimum  of  hours  in  the  week  one  could 
conscientiously  allow  a  doubtful  member 
of  the  Weekly  Culture  Club  to  spend 
upon  Browning,  she  endeavored  to  get  his 
idea  of  that  poet.  Her  famous  theory 
as  to  her  ability  to  place  any  one  satis 
factorily  in  the  scale  of  culture  according 
to  his  degree  of  appreciation  of "  Rabbi  ben 

[57] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


Ezra  "  was  unfortunately  known  to  her 
lodger  before  she  could  with  any  veri 
similitude  produce  the  book,  and  he  was 
wary  of  committing  himself.  The  ex 
quisite  effrontery  with  which  she  finally 
brought  out  her  gray-green  volume  was 
only  equalled  by  the  forbearing  courtesy 
with  which  he  welcomed  both  it  and  her. 
Nor  did  he  offer  any  other  comment 
on  her  opening  the  book  at  a  well-worn 
page  than  an  apologetic  removal  to  the 
only  chair  in  the  room  more  comfortable 
than  the  one  he  was  at  the  time  occupy 
ing.  He  listened  in  silence  to  her  intel 
ligent  if  somewhat  sonorous  rendering  of 
selected  portions  of cc  Saul,"  thanking  her 
politely  at  the  close,  and  only  stipulating 
that  he  should  be  allowed  to  return  the 
favor  by  a  reading  from  one  of  his 
own  favorite  poets.  With  a  shocked  re 
membrance  of  certain  yellow-covered  vol 
umes  she  had  often  cleared  away  from 
the  piazza,  Miss  Gould  inquired  if  the 
poet  in  question  were  English.  On  his 

[58] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


hearty  affirmative  she  resigned  herself 
with  no  little  interest  to  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  her  way  more  clearly  into  this 
baffling  mind,  horrified  at  his  criticism  of 
the  second  reading  —  for  she  had  brought 
the  "  Rabbi  "  forward  at  last. 

"Then  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand,  but  go  ! " 

she  had  intoned ;  and,  fixing  her  eye 
sternly  on  the  butterfly  in  white  flannels, 
she  had  asked  him  with  a  telling  empha 
sis  what  that  meant  to  him  ?  With  the 
sweetest  smile  in  the  world,  he  had  leaned 
forward,  sipped  his  tea,  gazed  thought 
fully  in  the  fire,  and  answered,  with  a 
polite  apology  for  the  homeliness  of  the 
illustration,  that  it  reminded  him  most 
strongly  of  a  tack  fixed  in  the  seat  of  a 
chair,  with  the  attendant  circumstances  ! 
After  a  convulsive  effort  to  include  in 
one  terrible  sentence  all  the  scorn  and 

[59] 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


regret  and  pity  that  she  felt,  Miss  Gould 
had  decided  that  silence  was  best,  arid  sat 
back  wondering  why  she  suffered  him 
one  instant  in  her  parlor.  He  took 
from  the  floor  beside  him  at  this  point  a 
neat  red  volume,  and,  murmuring  some 
thing  about  his  inability  to  do  the  poet 
justice,  he  began  to  read.  For  one,  two, 
four  minutes  Miss  Gould  sat  staring ; 
then  she  interrupted  him  coldly : 

cc  And  who  is  the  author  of  that  dog 
gerel,  Mr.  Welles  ?  " 

"  Edward  Lear,  dear  Miss  Gould  — 
and  a  great  man,  too." 

"  I  think  I  might  have  been  spared — " 
she  began  with  such  genuine  anger  that 
any  but  her  lodger  would  have  quailed. 
He,  however,  merely  smiled. 

"  But  the  subtlety  of  it  —  the  immen 
sity  of  the  conception  —  the  power  of 
characterization!"  he  cried.  "Just  see 
how  quietly  this  is  treated." 

And  to  her  amazement  she  let  him  go 
on  ;  so  that  a  chance  visitor,  entering  un- 

[60] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


announced,  might  have  been  treated  to 
the  delicious  spectacle  of  a  charming 
middle-aged  gentleman  in  white  flannels 
reading,  near  a  birch  fire  and  a  priceless 
pewter  tea-service,  to  a  handsome  mid 
dle-aged  woman  in  black  silk,  the  fol 
lowing  pregnant  lines  : 

"  There  was  an  old  person  of  Bow, 
Whom  nobody  happened  to  know, 
So  they  gave  him  some  soap, 
And  said  coldly,  c  We  hope 
You  will  go  back  directly  to  Bow !  ' 

And  the  illustration  is  worthy  of  the 
text,"  he  added  enthusiastically,  as  he 
passed  the  volume  to  her. 

She  had  no  sense  of  humor,  but  she 
had  a  sense  of  justice,  and  it  occurred  to 
her  that  after  all  an  agreement  was  an 
agreement.  If  to  listen  to  insinuating 
inanities  was  the  price  of  his  attention, 
she  would  pay  it.  She  had  borne  more 
than  this  in  order  to  do  good. 

So  the  readings  continued,  a  source  of 
[61] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


unmixed  delight  to  her  lodger  and  a  great 
spiritual  discipline  to  herself. 

As  the  days  grew  milder  their  inti 
macy,  profiting  by  the  winter  seclusion, 
led  him  to  accompany  her  on  her  various 
errands.  She  was  at  first  unwilling  to 
accept  his  escort  —  it  too  clearly  resem 
bled  a  tacit  consent  to  his  idleness.  But 
his  quiet  persistence,  together  with  his 
evident  cynicism  as  to  the  results  of  these 
professional  tours,  accomplished,  as  usual, 
his  end  ;  and  the  wondering  village  might 
observe  on  hot  June  mornings  its  bene 
factress,  languidly  accompanied  by  a  slen 
der  man  in  white  flannels,  balancing  a 
large  white  green-lined  umbrella,  picking 
his  way  daintily  along  the  dusty  paths, 
with  a  covered  basket  dangling  from  one 
hand  and  a  gray-green  volume  distending 
one  white  pocket. 

There  was  material,  too,  for  the  inter 
ested  observer  in  the  picture  of  Miss 
Gould  distributing  reading  matter,  fruit, 
and  lectures  on  household  economy  in 
[6a] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


the  cottages  of  the  mill-hands,  while  her 
lodger  pitched  pennies  with  the  delighted 
children  outside.  It  was  on  one  of  these 
occasions  that  Miss  Gould  took  the  op 
portunity  to  address  Mr.  Thomas  Waters, 
late  of  the  paper  and  cardboard  manu 
facturing  force,  on  the  wickedness  and 
folly  of  his  present  course  of  action. 
Mr.  Waters  had  left  his  position  on  the 
strength  of  his  wife's  financial  success. 
Mrs.  Waters  was  a  laundress,  and  the 
summer  boarders,  together  with  Mr. 
Welles,  who  alone  went  far  toward  es 
tablishing  the  fortunes  of  the  family,  had 
combined  to  place  the  head  of  the  house 
in  his  present  condition  of  elegant  leisure. 
"  I  wonder  at  you,  Tom  Waters,  after 
all  the  interest  we've  taken  in  you  *  Are 
you  not  horribly  ashamed  to  depend  on 
your  wife  in  this  lazy  way  ?  "  Miss  Gould 
demanded  of  the  once  member  of  the 
Reformed  Drunkards'  League.  "  How 
many  times  have  I  explained  to  you  that 
nothing  —  absolutely  nothing —  is  so  dis- 

[63] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


graceful  as  a  man  who  will  not  work  ? 
What  were  you  placed  in  the  world  for  ? 
How  do  you  justify  your  existence  ?  " 

"  How,"  replied  her  unabashed  audi 
ence,  with  a  wave  of  his  pipe  toward  the 
front  yard,  where  Mr.  Welles  was  ami 
ably  superintending  a  wrestling  match, 
"  does  he  justify  hisn  ?  " 

Had  Miss  Gould  been  less  consistent 
and  less  in  earnest,  there  were  many  re 
plies  open  to  her.  As  it  was,  she  colored 
violently,  bit  her  lip,  made  an  inaudible 
remark,  and  with  a  bitter  glance  at  the 
author  of  her  confusion,  now  cheering 
on  to  the  conflict  the  scrambling  Waters 
children,  she  called  their  mother  to  ac 
count  for  their  presence  in  the  yard  at 
this  time  on  a  school-day,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  left  the  house  with 
out  exacting  a  solemn  promise  of  amend 
ment  from  the  head  of  the  family. 

"  I  guess  I  fixed  her  that  time !  "  Mr. 
Waters  remarked  triumphantly,  as  he 
summoned  his  second  pair  of  twins  from 

[64] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


the  yard  and  demanded  of  them  if  the 
gentleman  had  given  them  nickels  or 
dimes. 

The  gentleman  in  question  became  un 
comfortably  conscious,  in  the  course  of 
their  walk  home,  of  an  atmosphere  not 
wholly  novel,  that  lost  no  strength  in 
this  case  from  its  studied  repression. 
That  afternoon,  as  they  sat  in  the  shade 
of  the  big  elm,  he  in  his  flexible  wicker 
chair,  she  in  a  straight-backed,  high- 
seated  legacy  from  her  grandfather,  the 
whirlwind  that  Mr.  Waters  had  so  lightly 
sown  fell  to  the  reaping  of  a  victim  too 
amiable  and  unsuspecting  not  to  escape 
the  sentence  of  any  but  so  stern  a  judge 
as  the  handsome  and  inflexible  represen 
tative  of  the  moral  order  now  before 
him. 

Miss  Gould  was  looking  her  best  in 
a  crisp  lavender  dimity,  upon  whose  frills 
Mrs.  Waters  had  bestowed  the  grate 
ful  exercise  of  her  highest  art.  Her  sleek, 
dark  coils  of  hair,  from  which  no  one 

[65] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


stray  lock  escaped,  framed  her  fresh 
cheeks  most  admirably  ;  her  strong  white 
hands  appeared  and  disappeared  with  an 
absolute  regularity  through  the  dark- 
green  wool  out  of  which  she  was  evolving 
a  hideous  and  useful  shawl.  To  her 
lodger,  who  alternately  waved  a  palm-leaf 
fan  and  drank  lemonade,  reading  at  in 
tervals  from  a  two-days-old  newspaper, 
and  carrying  on  the  desultory  and  amus 
ing  soliloquy  that  they  were  pleased  to 
consider  conversation,  she  presented  the 
most  attractive  of  pictures.  "  So  firm, 
so  positive,  so  wholesome,"  he  murmured 
to  himself,  calling  her  attention  to  the 
exquisite  effect  of  the  slanting  rays  that 
struck  the  lawn  in  a  dappled  pattern  of 
flickering  leaf-shadows,  and  remarking 
the  violet  tinge  thrown  by  the  setting 
sun  on  the  old  spire  below  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  village.  She  did  not  answer 
immediately,  and  when  she  did  it  was  in 
tones  that  he  had  learned  from  various 
slight  experiments  to  regard  as  finaL 
[66] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


"  Mr.  Welles,"  she  said,  bending  upon 
him  that  direct  and  placid  regard  that 
rendered  evasion  difficult  and  paltering 
impossible,  "  things  have  come  to  a 
point "  ;  and  she  narrated  the  scene  of 
the  morning. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  problem/'  observed 
her  lodger  gravely,  "  but  what  is  one  to 
do?  It  is  just  such  questions  as  this 
that  illustrate  the  futility — " 

"  There  is  no  question  about  it,  Mr. 
Welles,"  she  interrupted  gravely.  "  Tom 
was  right  and  I  was  wrong.  There  is  no 
use  in  my  talking  to  him  or  anybody 
while  I  —  while  you  —  while  things  are 
as  they  are.  You  must  make  up  your 
mind,  Mr.  Welles." 

"But,  great  heavens,  dear  Miss  Gould, 
what  do  you  mean?  What  am  I  to 
make  up  my  mind  about?  Am  I  to 
provide  myself  with  an  occupation,  per 
haps,  for  the  sake  of  Tom  Waters's  prin 
ciples  ?  Or  am  I  —  " 

"Yes.     That   is  just  it.     You  know 

[67] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


what  I  have  always  felt,  Mr.  Welles, 
about  it.  But  I  never  seemed  to  be 
able  to  make  you  see.  Now,  as  I  say, 
things  have  come  to  a  point.  You  must 
do  something." 

"  But  this  is  absurd,  Miss  Gould  !  I 
am  not  a  child,  and  surely  nobody  can 
dream  of  holding  you  in  any  way  re 
sponsible —  " 

"/  hold  myself  responsible/'  she  re 
plied  simply,  "and  I  have  never  approved 
of  it — -never  !  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  desperately. 
She  was  imperturbable ;  she  was  impossi 
ble;  she  was  beyond  argument  or  persua 
sion  or  ridicule. 

"  Suppose  I  say  that  I  think  the  situa 
tion  is  absurd,  and  that  I  refuse  to  be 
placed  at  Mr.  Waters's  disposal?"  he 
suggested  with  a  furtive  glance.  She 
drew  the  ivory  hook  through  the  green 
meshes  a  little  faster. 

"  I  should  be  obliged  to  refuse  to  re- 

[68] 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


new  your  lease  in  the  fall,"  she  answered. 
He  started  from  his  wicker  chair. 

"  You  cannot  mean  it,  Miss  Gould ! 
You  would  not  be  so — so  unkind,  so 
unjust ! " 

"I  should  feel  obliged  to,  Mr.  Welles, 
and  I  should  not  feel  unjust." 

He  sank  back  into  the  yielding  chair 
with  a  sigh.  After  all,  her  fascination 
had  always  lain  in  her  great  decision. 
Was  it  not  illogical  to  expect  her  to  fail  to 
display  it  at  such  a  crisis?  There  was  a 
long  silence.  The  sun  sank  lower  and 
lower,  the  birds  twittered  happily  around 
them.  Miss  Gould's  long  white  hook 
slipped  in  and  out  of  the  wool,  and  her 
lodger's  eyes  followed  it  absently.  After 
a  while  he  rose,  settled  his  white  jacket 
elaborately,  and  half  turned  as  if  to  go 
back  to  the  house. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  regret  this 
unfortunate  decision  of  yours,"  he  said 
politely,  with  a  slight  touch  of  the  hauteur 

[69] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


that  sat  so  well  on  his  graceful  person. 
"  I  can  only  say  that  I  am  sorry  you 
yourself  should  regret  it  so  little,  and 
that  I  hope  it  will  not  disturb  our  pleas 
ant  acquaintance  during  the  weeks  that 
remain  to  me/' 

She  bowed  slightly  with  a  dignified 
gesture  that  often  served  her  as  a  reply, 
and  he  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"  Would  we  not  better  come  in  ?  "  he 
suggested.  "  The  sun  is  gone,  and  your 
dress  is  thin.  Let  me  send  Henry  after 
the  chairs,"  and  his  eyes  dropped  to  her 
hands  again.  They  were  nearly  hidden 
by  the  green  wool,  but  the  long  needle 
quivered  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind ;  she 
could  not  pass  it  between  the  thread  and 
her  white  forefinger.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  glanced  at  her  face,  smiled  in 
scrutably,  and  deliberately  reseated  him 
self. 

"  What  in  the  world  could  I  do,  you 
see  ?  "  he  inquired  meditatively,  as  if  that 
had  been  the  subject  under  discussion  for 

[70] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


some  time.  "  I  can't  make  cardboard 
boxes,  you  know.  It's  perfectly  useless, 
my  going  into  a  factory.  Wheels  and 
belts  and  things  always  give  me  the  mad 
dest  longing  to  jump  into  them  —  I 
couldn't  resist  it !  And  that  would  be 
so  unpleasant — " 

She  dropped  her  wool  and  clasped  her 
hands  under  it. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Welles,"  she  cried  eagerly, 
"  how  absurd  !  As  if  I  meant  that !  As 
if  I  meant  anything  like  it !  " 

<c  Had  you  thought  of  anything,  then  ? " 
he  asked  interestedly. 

She  nodded  gravely.  "  Why,  yes," 
she  said.  "  It  wouldn't  be  right  for  me 
to  say  you  must  do  something,  and  then 
offer  no  suggestions  whatever,  knowing 
as  I  do  how  you  feel  about  it.  I  thought 
of  such  a  good  plan,  and  one  that  would 
be  the  best  possible  answer  to  Tom  — " 

<c  Oh,  good  heavens  !  "  murmured  her 
lodger,  but  she  went  on  quickly  :  "  You 
know  I  was  going  to  open  the  soup- 

[71] 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


kitchen  in  October.  Well,  I've  just 
thought.  Why  not  get  the  Rooms  all 
ready,  and  the  reading-room  moved  over 
there,  and  have  lemonade  and  sandwiches 
and  sarsaparilla,  and  Kitty  Waters  to  be 
gin  to  serve  right  away,  as  she's  begin 
ning  to  run  the  streets  again,  and  Annabel 
Riley  with  her  ?  Then  the  Civic  Club 
can  have  its  headquarters  there,  and  peo 
ple  will  begin  to  be  used  to  it  before  cold 
weather." 

"  And  I  am  to  serve  sarsaparilla  and 
sandwiches  with  Kitty  and  Annabel  ? 
Really,  dear  Miss  Gould,  if  you  knew 
how  horribly  ill  sarsaparilla  is  certain  to 
make  me  —  I  have  loathed  it  from  child 
hood—'' 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  "  she  interrupted, 
with  her  sweet,  tolerant  smile.  She  smiled 
at  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  child. 

"  You  know  I  never  meant  that  you 
should  work  all  day,  Mr.  Welles.  It 
isn't  at  all  necessary.  I  have  always  felt 
that  an  hour  or  two  a  day  of  intelligent, 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


cultivated  work  was  fully  equal  to  a 
much  longer  space  of  manual  labor  that 
is  more  mechanical,  more  tiresome." 

"  Better  fifty  years  of  poker  than  a 
cycle  of  croquet !  "  her  lodger  murmured. 
"  Yes,  I  have  always  felt  that  myself." 

"  And  somebody  must  be  there  from 
ten  to  twelve,  say,  in  the  mornings,  in 
what  we  call  the  office ;  just  to  keep 
an  eye  on  things,  and  answer  questions 
about  the  kitchen,  and  watch  the  reading- 
room,  and  recommend  the  periodicals, 
and  take  the  children's  Civic  League  re 
ports,  and  oversee  the  Rooms  generally. 
Now  I'd  be  there  Wednesdays  to  meet 
the  mothers,  and  Mrs.  Underwood  Sat 
urdays  for  the  Band  of  Hope  and  the 
kitchen-garden.  It  would  be  just  Mon 
days,  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Fridays 
from  ten  to  twelve,  say  !  " 

"  From  ten  to  twelve,  say,"  he  re 
peated  absently,  with  his  eyes  on  her 
handsome,  eager  face.  He  had  never 
seen  her  so  animated,  so  girlishly  insist- 

[73] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


ent.  She  urged  with  the  vivid  earnest 
ness  of  twenty  years. 

"  My  dear  lady/'  he  brought  out 
finally,  cc  you  are  like  Greek  architecture 
or  Eastlake  furniture  or — or  c  God  Save 
the  Queen  '  —  perfectly  absolute  !  And 
I  am  so  hideously  relative  —  But,  after 
all,  why  should  a  sense  of  humor  be  an 
essential  ?  One  is  really  more  complete  — 
I  suppose  Mahomet  had  none —  When 
shall  I  begin  ?  " 

The  interested  villagers  were  informed 
early  and  regularly  of  the  progress  of  the 
latest  scheme  of  their  benefactress. 
Henry  and  Mr.  Waters  furnished  most 
satisfactory  and  detailed  bulletins  to  gath 
erings  of  leisurely  and  congenial  spirits, 
who  listened  with  incredulous  amazement 
to  the  accounts  of  Mr.  Welles's  pro 
ceedings. 

"  Him  an'  that  hired  man  o'  his,  they 
have  took  more  stuff  over  to  them  Rooms 
than  you  c'd  shake  a  stick  at !  I  never 
see  nothing  like  it  —  never  !  Waxed  that 

[74] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


floor,  they  have,  and  put  more  mats  onto 
it  —  fur  and  colored.  An'  the  stuff — 
oh,  Lord  !  China  —  all  that  blue  china 
he  got  fr'm  ol'  Mis'  Simms,  an'  them  ol' 
stoneware  platters  that  Mis'  Rivers  was 
goin'  to  fire  away,  an'  he  give  her  two 
dollars  for  the  lot  —  all  that's  scattered 
round  on  tables  and  shelves.  An'  that 
ol'  black  secr'tary  he  got  fr'm  Lord 
knows  where,  an'  brakes  growin'  in  col 
ored  pots  standin'  right  up  there,  an' 
statyers  o'  men  an'  women  —  no  heads 
onto  'em,  some  ain't  got ;  it's  all  one 
to  him  —  he'd  buy  any  ol'  thing  so's 
'twas  broke,  you  might  say.  An'  them 
ol'  straight  chairs  —  no  upholsterin'  on 
'em,  an'  some  o'  them  wicker  kind  that 
bends  any  way,  with  pillers  in  'em.  An' 
cups  and  sassers,  with  a  tea-pot  'n'  -kittle  ; 
an'  he  makes  tea  himself  an'  drinks  it  — 
I  swear  it's  so.  An'  a  guitar,  an',  Lord, 
the  pictures  !  You  can't  see  no  wall  for 
'em! 

"  'It's   a   mighty  lucky   thing,   havin' 

[75] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


this  room,  Thompson/  says  he  to  that 
hired  man,  c  the  things  was  spillin'  over. 
We'll  make  it  a  bower  o'  beauty, 
Thompson,'  says  he.  c  Yes,  sir/  says 
the  man.  That's  all  he  ever  says,  you 
might  say.  I  never  see  nothin'  like  it, 
never,  the  way  that  hired  man  talks  to 
him;  you'd  think  he  was  the  Queen  o' 
Sheba. 

"  An'  he  goes  squintin'  about  here  an' 
there,  changin'  this  an'  that,  an'  singm' 
away  an'  laughin'  —  you'd  think  he'd 
have  a  fit.  Seems's  if  he  loved  to  putter 
about  'n'  fool  with  things  in  a  room,  like 
women.  I  heard  him  say  so  myself.  I 
was  helpin'  Miss  Gould  with  the  other 
rooms — she  ain't  seen  his;  she  don't 
know  no  more'n  the  dead  what  he's  got 
in  there — an'  I  was  by  the  door  when 
he  said  it. 

" '  Thompson/  says  he,  c  if  I  don't 
keep  my  present  situation/  says  he,  c  I 
c'n  go  out  as  a  decorator  an'  furnisher. 
Don't  you  think  I'd  succeed,  Thomp- 

[76] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


son?'  says  he.  c  Yes,  sir,'  says  Thomp 
son. 

"  '  You  see,  we've  got  to  do  something 
Thompson,'  says  he.  c  We've  got  ter 
justify  our  existence,  Thompson,'  an'  he 
commenced  to  laugh.  c  Yes,  sir,'  says 
Thompson.  Beats  all  I  ever  see,  the 
way  that  man  answers  back  !  " 

An  almost  unprecedented  headache, 
brought  on  by  her  unremitting  labor  in 
effecting  the  change  in  the  Rooms,  kept 
Miss  Gould  in  the  house  for  two  days 
after  the  new  headquarters  had  been  sat 
isfactorily  arranged  ;  and  as  Mr.  Welles 
had  refused  to  open  his  office  for  inspec 
tion  till  it  was  completely  furnished,  she 
did  not  enter  that  characteristic  apart 
ment  till  the  third  day  of  its  official  ex 
istence. 

As  she  went  through  the  narrow  hall 
way  connecting  the  four  rooms  on  which 
the  social  regeneration  of  her  village  de 
pended,  she  caught  the  sweet  low  thrum 
of  a  guitar  and  a  too  familiarly  seductive 

[77] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


voice  burst  forth  into  a  chant,  whose  lit 
eral  significance  she  was  unable  to  grasp, 
owing  to  lack  of  familiarity  with  the  lan 
guage  in  which  it  was  couched,  but  whose 
general  tenor  no  one  could  mistake,  so 
tender  and  arch  was  the  rendering. 

With  a  vague  thrill  of  apprehension  she 
threw  open  the  door. 

Sunk  in  cushions,  a  tea-cup  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  a  guitar  resting  on  his 
white  flannel  sleeve,  reclined  the  director 
of  the  Rooms.  Over  his  head  hung  a 
large  and  exquisite  copy  of  the  Botticelli 
Venus.  Miss  Gould's  horrified  gaze  fled 
from  this  work  of  art  to  rest  on  a  repre 
sentation  in  bronze  of  the  same  repre 
hensible  goddess,  clothed,  to  be  sure,  a 
little  more  in  accordance  with  the  views 
of  a  retired  New  England  community, 
yet  leaving  much  to  be  desired  in  this 
direction.  Kitty  Waters  attentively  filled 
his  empty  cup,  beaming  the  while,  and 
the  once  errant  Annabel,  sitting  on  a  low 
stool  at  his  feet,  with  a  red  bow  in  her 

[78] 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 


pretty  hair,  and  her  great  brown  eyes 
fixed  adoringly  on  his  face  as  he  directed 
the  fascinating  incomprehensible  little 
song  straight  at  her  charming  self,  was 
obviously  in  no  present  danger  of  run 
ning  the  streets. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Gould  !  "  he 
said  cheerfully,  rising  and  handing  the 
guitar  to  the  abashed  Annabel.  "And 
you  are  really  quite  recovered  ?  Cest 
bien  !  Business  is  dull,  and  we  are  amus 
ing  each  other,  you  see.  How  do  you 
like  the  rooms  ?  I  flatter  myself — " 

"  If  you  flattered  none  but  yourself, 
Mr.  Welles,  much  harm  would  be  avoid 
ed,"  she  interrupted  with  uncompromising 
directness.  "  Kitty  and  Annabel,  I  can 
not  see  how  you  can  possibly  tell  how 
many  people  may  or  may  not  be  wanting 
lunch  ! " 

"  Billy  Rider  tells  us  when  any  one 
comes,"  the  director  assured  her.  "  They 
don't  come  till  twelve,  anyway,  and  then 
they  want  to  see  the  room,  mostly  — 

[79] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


which   we  show  them,  don't  we,  Anna 
bel  ?  " 

Annabel  blushed,  cast  down  her  eyes, 
lifted  them,  showed  her  dimples,  and  re 
plied  in  the  words,  if  not  in  the  accents, 
of  Thompson  :  "  Yes,  sir  !  " 

"  It's  really  going  to  be  an  education 
in  itself,  don't  you  think  so  ?  "  he  con 
tinued.  "  It's  amazing  how  the  people 
like  it  —  it's  really  quite  gratifying.  Per 
haps  it  may  be  my  mission  to  abolish 
the  chromo  and  the  tidy  from  off  the  face 
of  New  England  !  We  have  had  crowds 
here  — just  to  look  at  the  pictures." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it ! "  replied  Miss 
Gould  briefly. 

"  And  I  got  the  most  attractive  sugar- 
bowl  from  the  little  boy  who  brought 
in  the  reports  about  picking  up  papers 
and  such  things  from  the  streets.  He 
said  he  ought  to  have  five  cents,  so  I 
gave  him  a  dime  —  I  hadn't  five  —  and 
I  bought  the  bowl.  Annabel,  my  child, 
bring  me  — " 

[80] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


But  Annabel  and  her  fellow-waitress 
had  disappeared.  Miss  Gould  sat  in  si 
lence.  At  intervals  her  perplexed  gaze 
rested  unconsciously  on  the  Botticelli 
Venus,  from  which  she  instantly  with  a 
slight  frown  lowered  it  and  regarded  the 
floor.  When  she  at  last  met  his  eyes 
the  expression  of  her  own  was  so  trou 
bled,  the  droop  of  her  firm  mouth  so 
pathetic  and  unusual,  that  he  left  his 
chair  and  dragged  the  little  stool  to  her 
feet,  assuming  an  attitude  so  boyish  and 
graceful  that  in  spite  of  herself  she  smiled 
at  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked  con 
fidentially.  "  Is  anything  wrong  ?  Don't 
you  like  the  room  ?  I  enjoy  it  tremen 
dously,  myself.  I've  been  here  almost 
all  the  time  since  it  was  done.  I  think 
Tom  Waters  must  be  tremendously  im 
pressed  — " 

c<  That's  the  trouble  ;  he  is,"  said  Miss 
Gould  simply. 

"  Trouble  ?  trouble  ?  Is  his  impres- 
[81] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


sion  unfavorable  ?  Heavens,  how  un 
fortunate  !  "  exclaimed  the  director  airily. 
"  Surely,  my  application  —  Does  the 
room  fail  to  meet  his  approval,  or — " 

"  Yes,  it  does,"  she  interrupted. 
"  He  says  it's  no  place  for  a  man  to  be 
in  ;  and  he  says  the  pictures  are  —  are  — 
well,  he  says  they  are  improper !  "  glan 
cing  at  the  Venus. 

"  Ah !  "  responded  the  director  with 
a  suspicious  sweetness.  "  He  does  not 
care  for  the  nude,  then  ?  " 

She  sighed  deeply.  "Oh,  Mr.  Welles  !" 

"  It  is  indeed  to  be  regretted  that  Mr. 
Waters's  ideals  are  so  high  —  and  —  shall 
we  say  —  so  elusive  ?  "  proceeded  the 
director  smoothly.  "  It  is  so  difficult  — 
so  well-nigh  impossible  —  to  satisfy  him. 
One  devotes  one's  energies  —  I  may  say 
one  slaves  night  and  day  —  to  win  some 
slight  mark  of  approval;  and  just  as  one 
is  about  to  reap  the  well-earned  reward  — 
a  smile,  a  word  of  appreciation  —  all  is 
forfeited  !  It  is  hard  indeed  !  Would 

[82] 


A    PHILANTHROPIST 


you  suggest  the  rearrangement  of  the 
Rooms  under  Mr.  Waters's  direction  ? 
Thompson  is  at  his  service  — " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Welles  !  "  she  sighed  hope 
lessly.  "  It  isn't  only  that !  It's  not 
alone  the  room,  though  Mrs.  Under 
wood  wonders  that  I  should  think  she 
would  be  able  to  conduct  the  Band  of 
Hope  in  here,  and  Mrs.  Rider  says  that 
after  what  her  husband  told  her  she 
should  no  more  think  of  sitting  here  for 
a  mothers'  meeting  than  anything  in 
the  world.  It's  the  whole  thing.  Why 
did  you  treat  them  all  to  lemonade  the 
first  day  ?  Surely  you  knew  that  our 
one  aim  is  to  prevent  miscellaneous 
charity.  And  Tom  says  you  smoked  in 
here —  he  smelt  it." 

"  I  smelt  him,  too,"  remarked  the  di 
rector  calmly.  cc  That  was  one  reason 
why  I  smoked." 

"  And  —  and  having  Kitty  and  Anna 
bel  here  all  the  time  !  The  Girls'  Club 
are  so  j  —  Well,  the  Girls'  Club  like 

[83] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


the  old  rooms  better,  they  say,  and  it's 
so  difficult  to  get  them  to  work  together 
at  best.  And  now  we  shall  have  to  work 
so  hard  — 

"And  the  men  think  it's  just  a  joke, 
the  lemonade  and  everything,  and  the 
room  gave  them  such  a  wrong  impres 
sion,  and  they  don't  seem  to  want  it, 
anyway.  Tom  Waters  says  he  can't 
abide  sarsaparilla  —  " 

"Great  heavens!"  the  director  broke 
in,  "  is  it  possible?  A  point  on  which  Mr. 
Waters's  opinion  coincides  with  mine  ? 
I  have  not  lived  in  vain !  But  this  is 
too  much;  I  have  not  deserved  — " 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  begged.  "There 
is  more.  When  I  corrected  Annabel 
for  what  I  had  heard  about  her  —  her 
impertinent  behavior,  she  said  that  Mrs. 
Underwood  had  never  approved  of  the 
whole  thing,  and  that  if  I  had  consulted 
her  she  would  never  have  given  her  con 
sent  to  your  being  here,  and  that  I  was 
dictatorial  —  I!" 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


Her  lodger  coughed  and  ejaculated, 
"  You,  indeed  !  " 

"  And  when  I  said  that  their  ingrati 
tude  actually  made  me  wonder  why  I 
worked  so  hard  for  them,  she  said  —  oh, 
dear  !  It  is  all  dreadful !  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  !  " 

"I  do ! "  returned  her  lodger  promptly. 
"Go  away  and  leave  'em!  They  aren't 
fit  to  trouble  you  any  more.  Besides, 
they're  really  not  so  bad,  after  all,  you 
know.  There  has  to  be  just  about  so 
much  laziness  and  —  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  don't  you  see.  Look  at  me,  for 
instance  !  Think  of  how  much  misdi 
rected  energy  I  balance  !  And  it  gives 
other  people  something  to  do.  .  .  .  Go 
away  and  leave  it  all  for  a  while  !  "  he 
repeated  smilingly. 

"  Go  away !  But  where  ?  Why  should 
I  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  stammered, 
confused  at  something  in  his  eyes,  which 
never  left  her  face. 

"To   England — you  said  you'd  like 

[85] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


to  see  it.  With  me  —  for  I  certainly 
couldn't  stay  here  alone.  Why  do  you 
suppose  I  stay,  dear  lady?  I  used  to 
wonder  myself.  No,  sit  still,  don't 
get  up  !  I  am  about  to  make  you  an 
offer  of  marriage ;  indeed,  I  am  seri 
ous,  Miss  Gould  ! 

"  I  don't  see  that  it's  ridiculous  at 
all.  I  see  every  practical  reason  in  favor 
of  it.  In  the  first  place,  if  they  are  gos 
siping  —  oh,  yes,  Thompson  told  me, 
and  I  wonder  that  they  hadn't  before: 
these  villages  are  dreadful  places  —  I 
couldn't  very  well  stay,  you  see;  and  then 
where  should  I  put  all  my  things?  In 
the  second  place,  I  have  so  much  stuff, 
and  there's  no  house  fit  for  it  but — but 
ours;  and  if  we  were  married  I  could 
have  just  twice  as  much  room  for  it  — 
and  I'm  getting  far  too  much  for  my 
side.  In  the  third  place,  I  find  that  I 
can't  look  forward  with  any  pleasure  to 
travelling  about  alone,  because,  in  the 
fourth  place,  I've  grown  so  tremendously 
[86] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


fond  of  you,  dear  Miss  Gould  !  I  think 
you  don't  dislike  me?" 

She  plucked  the  guitar  strings  ner 
vously  with  her  white,  strong  fingers. 
The  rich,  vibrating  tones  of  it  filled  the 
room  and  confused  her  still  more. 

"  People  will  say  that  I — that  we — " 
He  caught  her  hand :  it  had  never  been 
kissed  before.  "  Would  you  rather  I 
went  away  and  then  there  would  be  noth 
ing  left  for  them  to  say?"  he  asked  softly. 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"I'm  too  —  " 

"  You  are  too  charming  not  to  have 
some  one  who  appreciates  the  fact  as 
thoroughly  as  I  do,"  he  interrupted 
gallantly.  "  I  think  you  do  me  so 
much  good,  you  know,"  he  added,  still 
holding  her  hand.  She  looked  at  him 
directly  for  the  first  time. 

"  Do  I  really?  Is  that  true?"  she  de 
manded,  with  a  return  of  her  old  man 
ner  so  complete  and  sudden  as  to  startle 
him.  "  If  I  thought  that— " 

[87] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


"You  would?"  he  asked  with  a  smile. 
"  I  thought  so  !  Here  is  a  village  that 
scorns  your  efforts  and  a  respectful  suitor 
who  implores  them.  Can  you  hesitate?" 

His  smile  was  irresistible,  and  she  re 
turned  it  half  reprovingly.  "  Will  you 
never  be  serious  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  won 
der  that  I  can  — "  She  stopped. 

"That  you  can — "  he  repeated,  watch 
ing  her  blush,  but  she  would  not  finish. 

"  You  must  not  think  that  I  can  give 
up  my  work — my  real  work  —  so  easily," 
she  said,  rising  and  looking  down  on  him 
with  a  return  of  her  simple  impressive 
seriousness.  "  I  shall  have  to  consider. 
I  have  been  very  much  disturbed  by  their 
conduct.  I  will  see  you  after  supper," 
and  with  a  gesture  that  told  him  to  re 
main,  she  left  the  room,  her  head  high  as 
she  caught  Annabel's  voice  from  outside. 
She  turned  in  the  door,  however,  and  the 
stern  curves  of  her  mouth  melted  with  a 
smile  so  sweet,  a  promise  so  gracious  and 
so  tender,  that  when  her  eyes,  frank  and 
[88] 


A   PHILANTHROPIST 


direct  as  a  boy's,  left  his,  he  looked  long 
at  the  closed  door,  wondering  at  the 
quickening  of  his  pulses. 

A  moment  later  he  heard  her  voice, 
imperious  and  clear,  and  the  mumble  of 
Mr.  Waters's  unavailing  if  never-ending 
excuses.  He  laughed  softly  to  himself, 
and  touched  the  strings  of  the  guitar  that 
she  had  struck.  "  I  shall  save  the  wor 
thy  Thomas  much,"  he  murmured  to 
himself,  "and  of  course  I  do  it  to  reform 
her — I  cannot  pull  down  the  village  and 
die  with  the  Philistines  !  " 

She  went  up  the  long  main  street,  Mr. 
Waters  at  her  side  and  Annabel  Riley 
behind  her.  Her  lodger  watched  her  out 
of  sight,  and  prepared  to  lock  up  the 
Rooms. 

"So  firm,  so  positive,  so  wholesome!" 
he  said,  as  he  started  after  her. 


[89] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 


A    REVERSION    TO    TYPE 


SHE  had  never  felt  so  tired  of  it  all, 
it  seemed  to  her.  The  sun  streamed 
hot  across  the  backs  of  the  shining  seats 
into  her  eyes,  but  she  was  too  tired  to 
get  the  window-pole.  She  watched  the 
incoming  class  listlessly,  wondering  whe 
ther  it  would  be  worth  while  to  ask  one 
of  them  to  close  the  shutter.  They  chat 
tered  and  giggled  and  bustled  in,  rattling 
the  chairs  about,  and  begging  one  an 
other's  pardon  vociferously,  with  that  in 
sistent  politeness  which  marks  a  sharply 
defined  stage  in  the  social  evolution  of  the 
young  girl.  They  irritated  her  exces 
sively —  these  little  airs  and  graces.  She 

[93] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

opened  her  book  with  a  snap,  and  began 
to  call  the  roll  sharply. 

Midway  up  the  room  sat  a  tall,  dark 
girl,  not  handsome,  but  noticeably  well 
dressed.  She  looked  politely  at  her  ques 
tioner  when  spoken  to,  but  seemed  as  far 
in  spirit  as  the  distant  trees  toward  which 
she  directed  her  attention  when  not  par 
ticularly  addressed.  She  seemed  to  have 
a  certain  personality,  a  self-possession,  a 
source  of  interest  other  than  collegiate  ; 
and  this  held  her  apart  from  the  others  in 
the  mind  of  the  woman  who  sat  before 
the  desk. 

What  was  that  girl  thinking  of,  she 
wondered,  as  she  called  another  name  and 
glanced  at  the  book  to  gather  material 
for  a  question.  What  a  perfect  taste  had 
combined  that  dark,  brocaded  vest  with 
the  dull,  rough  cloth  of  the  suit  —  and 
she  dressed  her  hair  so  well !  She  had  a 
beautiful  band  of  pearls  on  one  finger  : 
was  it  an  engagement-ring  ?  No,  that 
would  be  a  solitaire. 

[94] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

And  all  this  time  she  called  names  from 
the  interminable  list,  and  mechanically 
corrected  the  mistakes  of  their  owners. 
Her  eyes  went  back  to  the  girl  in  the 
middle  row,  who  turned  her  head  and 
yawned  a  little.  They  took  their  educa 
tion  very  easily,  these  maidens. 

How  she  had  saved  and  denied  herself, 
and  even  consented  to  the  indebtedness 
she  so  hated,  to  gain  that  coveted  Ger 
man  winter  !  And  how  delightful  it  had 
been  ! 

Almost  she  saw  again  the  dear  home 
of  that  blessed  year  :  the  kindly  house 
mother;  the  chubby  Made  hen,  who 
knitted  her  a  silk  purse,  and  cried  when 
she  left;  the  father  with  his  beloved 
'cello  and  his  deep,  honest  voice. 

How  cunning  the  little  Bertha  had 
been  !  How  pleasant  it  was  to  hear  her 
gay  little  voice  when  one  came  down  the 
shady  street !  "  Da  ist  sie,  ja  !  "  she 
would  call  to  her  mother,  and  then  Her 
mann  would  come  up  to  her  with  his 

[95] 


A   REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

hands  outstretched.  Had  she  had  a 
hard  day  ?  Was  the  lecture  good  ? 
How  brown  his  beard  was,  and  how  deep 
and  faithful  his  brown  eyes  were  !  And 
he  used  to  sing  —  why  were  there  no  bass 
voices  in  the  States  ?  "  Kennst  du  das 
Land"  he  used  to  sing,  and  his  mother 
cried  softly  to  herself  for  pleasure.  And 
once  she  herself  had  cried  a  little. 

"No,"  she  said  to  the  girl  who  was 
reciting,  "  no,  it  takes  the  dative.  I  can 
not  seem  to  impress  sufficiently  on  your 
minds  the  necessity  for  learning  that  list 
thoroughly.  You  may  translate  now." 

And  they  translated.  H  ow  they  drawled 
it  over,  the  beautiful,  rich  German. 
Hermann  had  begged  so,  but  she  had 
felt  differently  then.  She  had  loved  her 
work  in  anticipation.  To  marry  and  settle 
down  —  she  was  not  ready.  It  would  be 
so  good  to  be  independent.  And  now  — 
But  it  was  too  late.  That  was  years  ago. 
Hermann  must  have  found  some  yellow- 
braided,  blue-eyed  Dorothea  by  this  — 

[96] 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

some  Mddchen  who  cared  not  for  calcu 
lus  and  Hebrew,  but  only  to  be  what  her 
mother  had  been,  wife  and  house-mother. 
But  this  was  treason.  Our  grand 
mothers  had  thought  that. 

She  looked  at  the  girl  in  the  middle 
row.  What  beautiful  hair  she  had ! 
What  an  idiot  she  was  to  give  up  four 
years  of  her  life  to  this  round  of  work 
and  play  and  pretence  of  living  !  Oh,  to 
go  back  to  Germany  —  to  see  Bertha 
and  her  mother  again,  and  hear  the  father's 
'cello  !  Hermann  had  loved  her  so  !  He 
had  said,  so  quietly  and  yet  so  surely  : 
"  But  thou  wilt  come  back,  my  heart's 
own.  And  always  I  wait  here  for  thee. 
Make  me  not  wait  long ! "  He  had 
seemed  too  quiet  then  —  too  slow  and  too 
easily  content.  She  had  wanted  quicker, 
busier,  more  individual  life.  And  now 
her  heart  said,  "  O  fool !  " 

Was  it  too  late  ?  Suppose  she  should 
go,  after  all  ?  Suppose  she  should  go, 
and  all  should  be  as  it  had  been,  only  a 

[97] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

little  older,  a  little  more  quiet  and  peace 
ful  ?  The  very  fancy  rilled  her  heart  with 
sudden  calm.  A  love  so  deep  and  sure, 
so  broad  and  sweet  —  could  it  not  dignify 
any  woman's  life  ?  And  she  had  been 
thought  worthy  and  had  refused  this  love! 
O  fool ! 

Suppose  she  went  and  found  —  her 
heart  beat  too  quickly,  and  her  face 
flushed.  She  called  on  the  bright  girl  in 
the  front  row. 

"And  what  havejy0#  learned?"  she  said. 

The  girl  coughed  importantly.  "  It  is 
a  poem  of  Goethe's,"  she  announced  in 
her  high,  satisfied  voice.  "  Kennst  du  das 
Land  — " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  German  as 
sistant.  "  I  fear  we  shall  not  have  time 
for  it  to-day.  The  hour  is  up.  You  may 
go  on  with  the  translation  for  to-mor 
row."  And  as  the  class  rose  with  a  grow 
ing  clamor  she  realized  that  though  she 
had  been  thinking  steadily  in  German, 
she  had  been  talking  in  English.  So  that 

[98] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

was  why  they  had  comprehended  so  well 
and  answered  so  readily  !  And  yet  she 
was  too  glad  to  be  annoyed  at  the  slip. 
There  were  other  things  :  her  life  was 
not  a  German  class  ! 

As  the  girls  crowded  out,  one  stopped 
by  the  desk.  She  laid  her  hand  with  the 
pearl  band  on  the  third  finger  on  the 
teacher's  arm.  "  You  look  tired,"  she 
said.  "  I  hope  you're  not  ill  ?  " 

"  111  ?  "  said  the  woman  at  the  desk. 
"  I  never  felt  better.  I've  been  neglect 
ing  my  classes,  I  fear,  in  the  study  of 
your  green  gown.  It  is  so  very  pretty." 

The  girl  smiled  and  colored  a  little. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  said.  "  I 
like  it,  too."  Then,  with  a  sudden  feel 
ing  of  friendship,  an  odd  sense  of  inti 
macy,  a  quick  impulse  of  common  femi 
ninity,  she  added  : 

"  I've  had  some  good  times  in  this 
dress.  Wearing  it  up  here  makes  me  re 
member  them  very  strangely.  It's  queer, 
what  a  difference  it  makes — "  She 

[99] 


A   REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

stopped  and  looked  questioningly  at  the 
older  woman. 

But  the  German  assistant  smiled  at  her. 
"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is.  And  when  you 
have  been  teaching  seven  years  the  dif 
ference  becomes  very  apparent/'  She 
gathered  up  her  books,  still  smiling  in  a 
reminiscent  way.  And  as  she  went  out 
of  the  door,  she  looked  back  at  the  glar 
ing,  sunny  room  as  if  already  it  were  far 
behind  her,  as  if  already  she  felt  the 
house-mother's  kiss,  and  heard  the  'cello, 
and  saw  Klara's  tiny  daughter  standing 
by  the  door,  throwing  kisses,  calling, 
"  Da  ist  sie,ja  !  " 

Lost  in  the  dream,  her  eyes  fixed  ab 
sently,  she  stumbled  against  her  fellow- 
assistant,  who  was  making  for  the  room 
she  had  just  left. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  wasn't  look 
ing.  Oh,  it's  you!"  she  murmured 
vaguely.  Her  fellow-assistant  had  a 
headache,  and  forty-five  written  papers 
to  correct.  She  had  just  heard,  too,  a 
[100] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

cutting  criticism  of  her  work  made  by 
the  self-appointed  faculty  critic ;  the 
criticism  was  cleverly  worded,  and  had 
just  enough  truth  to  fly  quickly  and  hurt 
her  with  the  head  of  her  department.  So 
she  was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers. 

"  Yes,  it's  I,"  she  said  crossly.  "  If 
you  had  knocked  these  papers  an  inch 
farther,  I  should  have  invited  you  to  cor 
rect  them.  If  you  go  about  in  that  ab 
stracted  way  much  longer,  my  dear,  Miss 
Selbourne  will  inform  the  world  (on  the 
very  best  authority)  that  you're  in  love.  " 

"  I  ?     What  nonsense  !  " 

It  was  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say,  and  she 
flushed  angrily  at  herself.  It  was  only  a 
joke,  of  course. 

The  other  woman  laughed  shortly. 

"  Dear  me  !  I  really  believe  you  are  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  The  girls  were  saying 
at  breakfast  that  Professor  Tredick  was 
ruining  himself  in  violets  yesterday  —  so 
it  was  for  you  !  "  and  she  went  into  the 
lecture-room. 

[wi] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

A  chattering  crowd  of  girls  closed  in 
behind  her.  One  voice  rose  above  the 
rest : 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it, 
then.  He  skated  with  her  all  the  winter, 
and  at  the  Dickinson  party  they  sat  on 
one  sofa  for  an  hour  and  talked  steadily  !  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  She  skates  beauti 
fully,  that's  all." 

"  She  sits  on  a  sofa  beautifully,  too." 
A  burst  of  laughter,  and  the  door  closed. 

The  German  assistant  smiled  satirically. 
It  was  all  of  a  piece.  At  least,  the 
younger  women  were  perfectly  frank 
about  it :  they  did  not  feel  themselves 
forced  to  employ  sarcasm  in  their  refer 
ences  ;  it  was  not  necessary  for  them  to 
appear  to  have  definitely  chosen  this  life 
in  preference  to  any  other.  Four  years 
was  little  to  lend  to  such  an  experiment. 
But  the  older  women,  who  sat  on  those 
prim  little  platforms  year  after  year  —  a 
sudden  curiosity  possessed  her  to  know 
how  many  of  them  were  really  satisfied. 
[102] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

Could  it  be  that  they  had  preferred  — 
actually  preferred  —  But  she  had,  herself, 
three  years  ago.  She  shook  her  head 
decidedly.  "  Not  for  nine  years,  not  for 
nine ! "  she  murmured,  as  she  caught 
through  the  heavy  door  a  familiar  voice 
raised  to  emphasize  some  French  phrase. 

And  yet,  somebody  must  teach  them. 
They  could  not  be  born  with  foreign 
idioms  and  historical  dates  and  mathe 
matical  formulae  in  their  little  heads. 
She  herself  deplored  the  modern  tendency 
that  sent  a  changing  drift  of  young  teach 
ers  through  the  colleges,  to  learn  at  the 
expense  of  the  students  a  soon  relinquished 
profession.  But  how  ridiculous  the  posi 
tion  of  the  women  who  prided  themselves 
on  the  steadiness  and  continuity  of  their 
service !  Surely  they  must  find  it  an  empty 
success  at  times.  They  must  regret. 

She  was  passing  through  the  chapel. 
Two  scrubbing-women  were  straightening 
the  chairs,  their  backs  turned  to  her. 

"  From  all   I    hear,"  said  one,  with  a 

CI03] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

chuckle  and  a  sly  glance,  "we'll  be  afther 
gettin'  our  invitations  soon.'* 

"  An'  to  what  ?  "  demanded  the  other 
quickly. 

"  Sure,  they  say  it's  a  weddin'." 

cc  Ah,  now,  hush  yer  noise,  Mary 
Nolan ;  'tis  no  such  thing.  I've  had 
enough  o'  husbands.  I  know  when  I'm 
doin'  well,  an'  that's  as  I  am  !  " 

"  'Tis  strange  that  the  men  sh'd  think 
different,  now,  but  they  do  !  " 

They  laughed  heartily  and  long.  The 
German  assistant  looked  at  the  broad 
backs  meditatively.  Just  now  they 
seemed  to  her  more  consistent  than  any 
other  women  in  the  great  building. 

She  walked  quickly  across  the  greening 
campus.  The  close-set  brick  buildings 
seemed  to  press  up  against  her ;  every 
window  stood  for  some  crowded,  narrow 
room,  filled  with  books  and  tea-cups  and 
clothes  and  photographs  —  hundreds  of 
them,  and  all  alike.  In  her  own  room 
she  tried  to  reason  herself  out  of  this 
[104] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

intolerable  depression,  to  realize  the  ad 
vantages  of  a  quiet  life  in  what  was  surely 
the  same  pleasant,  cultured  atmosphere 
to  which  she  had  so  eagerly  looked  for 
ward  three  years  ago.  Her  room  was 
large,  well  furnished,  perfectly  heated ; 
and  if  the  condition  of  her  closet  would 
have  appeared  nothing  short  of  appall 
ing  to  a  householder,  that  condition  was 
owing  to  the  hopeless  exigencies  of  the 
occasion.  With  the  exception  of  that 
whited  sepulchre,  all  was  neat,  artistic, 
eminently  habitable.  She  surveyed  it 
critically  :  the  "  Mona  Lisa,"  the  large 
"Melrose  Abbey,"  the  Burne-Jones  dra 
peries,  and  the  "  Blessed  Damozel  "  that 
spread  a  placid  if  monotonous  culture 
through  the  rooms  of  educated  single 
women.  A  proper  appreciation  of  pol 
ished  wood,  the  sanitary  and  aesthetic 
values  of  the  open  fire,  a  certain  scheme 
in  couch-pillows,  all  linked  it  to  the  dozen 
other  rooms  that  occupied  the  same  rela 
tive  ground-floor  corners  in  a  dozen  other 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

houses.  Some  of  them  had  more  books, 
some  ran  to  handsome  photographs,  some 
afforded  fads  in  old  furniture;  but  it  was 
only  a  question  of  more  or  less.  It  looked 
utterly  impersonal  to-day ;  its  very  atmos 
phere  was  artificial,  typical,  a  pretended 
self-sufficiency. 

How  many  years  more  should  she  live 
in  it  —  three,  nine,  thirteen  ?  The  tide 
of  girls  would  ebb  and  flow  with  every 
June  and  September;  eighteen  to  twenty- 
two  would  ring  their  changes  through  the 
terms,  and  she  could  take  her  choice  of 
the  two  methods  of  regarding  them :  she 
could  insist  on  a  perennial  interest  in  the 
separate  personalities,  and  endure  weari 
ness  for  the  sake  of  an  uncertain  influ 
ence  ;  or  she  could  mass  them  frankly  as 
the  student  body,  and  confine  the  con 
nection  to  marking  their  class-room  efforts 
and  serving  their  meat  in  the  dining-room. 
The  latter  was  at  once  more  honest  and 
more  easy ;  all  but  the  most  ambitious 
or  the  most  conscientious  came  to  it 
sooner  or  later. 

[106] 


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The  youngest  among  the  assistants, 
themselves  fresh  from  college,  mingled 
naturally  enough  with  the  students;  they 
danced  and  skated  and  enjoyed  their 
girlish  authority.  The  older  women, 
seasoned  to  the  life,  settled  there  indefi 
nitely,  identified  themselves  more  or  less 
with  the  town,  amused  themselves  with 
their  little  aristocracy  of  precedence,  and 
wove  and  interwove  the  complicated, 
slender  strands  of  college  gossip.  But  a 
woman  of  barely  thirty,  too  old  for 
friendships  with  young  girls,  too  young 
to  find  her  placid  recreation  in  the  stereo 
typed  round  of  social  functions,  that 
seemed  so  perfectly  imitative  of  the  nor 
mal  and  yet  so  curiously  unsuccessful  at 
bottom — what  was  there  for  her? 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  hill-slope 
view  that  made  her  room  so  desirable. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  its  changelessness 
was  not  necessarily  so  attractive  a  charac 
teristic  as  the  local  poets  practised  them 
selves  in  assuring  her. 

A  light  knock  at  the  door  recalled  to 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

her  the  utter  lack  of  privacy  that  put  her 
at  the  mercy  of  laundress,  sophomore, 
and  expressman.  She  regretted  that  she 
had  not  put  up  the  little  sign  whose 
"  Please  do  not  disturb "  was  her  only 
means  of  defence. 

"  Come  !  "  she  called  shortly,  and  the 
tall  girl  in  the  green  dress  stood  in  the 
open  door.  A  strange  sense  of  long  ac 
quaintance,  a  vague  feeling  of  familiarity, 
surprised  the  older  woman.  Her  expres 
sion  changed. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  cordially. 

"I — am  I  disturbing  you?"  asked  the 
girl  doubtfully.  She  had  a  pile  of  books 
on  her  arm  ;  her  trim  jacket  and  hat,  and 
something  in  the  way  she  held  her  arm 
ful,  seemed  curiously  at  variance  with  her 
tam-o'-shantered,  golf-caped  friends. 

"  I  couldn't  find  out  whether  you  had 
an  office  hour,  and  I  didn't  know  whether 
I  ought  to  have  sent  in  my  name  —  it 
seemed  so  formal,  when  it  is  only  a  mo 
ment  I  need  to  see  you  —  " 
[108] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  German  assistant 
pleasantly.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"  I  have  been  talking  with  Fraulein 
Miiller  about  my  German,  and  she  says 
if  you  are  willing  to  give  me  an  outline 
for  advanced  work  and  an  examination 
later  on,  I  can  go  into  a  higher  division 
in  a  little  while.  Languages  are  always 
easy  for  me,  and  I  could  go  on  much 
quicker." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  I  have  thought  more 
than  once  that  you  were  wasting  your 
time.  The  class  is  too  large  and  too 
slow.  I  will  make  you  out  an  outline  and 
give  it  to  you  after  class  to-morrow," 
said  the  German  assistant  promptly. 
"  Meanwhile,  won't  you  stay  and  make 
me  a  little  call  ?  I  will  light  the  fire  and 
make  some  tea,  if  that  is  an  inducement." 

"The  invitation  is  inducement  enough, 
I  assure  you,"  smiled  the  girl,  "  but  I 
must  not  stay  to-day,  I  think.  If  you 
will  let  me  come  again,  when  I  have  no 
work  to  bother  you  with,  I  should  love  to." 
[109] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

There  was  something  easily  decisive  in 
her  manner,  something  very  different 
from  the  other  students,  who  refused 
such  invitations  awkwardly,  eager  to  be 
pressed,  and  when  finally  assured  of  a 
sincere  welcome,  prolonged  their  calls  and 
talked  about  themselves  into  the  un 
counted  hours.  Evidently  she  would 
not  stay  this  time ;  evidently  she  would 
like  to  come  again. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her  the 
German  assistant  dropped  her  cordial 
smile  and  sank  back  listlessly  in  her 
chair. 

"  After  all,  she's  only  a  girl !  "  she 
murmured.  For  almost  an  hour  she  sat 
looking  fixedly  at  the  unlit  logs,  hardly 
conscious  of  the  wasted  time.  Much 
might  have  gone  into  that  hour.  There 
was  tea  for  her  at  one  of  the  college 
houses  —  the  hostess  had  a  "day,"  and 
went  so  far  as  to  aspire  to  the  exclusive 
serving  of  a  certain  kind  of  tinned  fancy 
biscuit  every  Friday  —  if  she  wanted  to 
[no] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

drop  in.  This  hostess  invited  favored 
students  to  meet  the  faculty  and  towns 
people  on  these  occasions,  and  the  two 
latter  classes  were  expected  to  effect  a 
social  fusion  with  the  former  —  which 
linked  it,  to  some  minds,  a  little  too  ob 
viously  with  professional  duties. 

She  might  call  on  the  head  of  her  de 
partment,  who  was  suffering  from  some 
slight  indisposition,  and  receive  minute 
advice  as  to  the  conduct  of  her  classes, 
mingled  with  general  criticism  of  various 
colleagues  and  their  methods.  She  might 
make  a  number  of  calls;  but  if  there  is 
one  situation  in  which  the  futility  of  these 
social  mockeries  becomes  most  thoroughly 
obvious,  it  is  the  situation  presented  by 
an  attempt  to  imitate  the  conventional 
society  life  in  a  woman's  college.  And 
yet  —  she  had  gone  over  the  whole  ques 
tion  so  often  —  what  a  desert  of  awk 
wardness  and  learned  provincialism  such 
a  college  would  be  without  the  attempt ! 
How  often  she  had  cordially  agreed  to 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

the  statement  that  it  was  precisely  be 
cause  of  its  insistence  upon  this  connec 
tion  with  the  forms  and  relations  of 
normal  life  that  her  college  was  so  suc 
cessfully  free  from  the  tomboyishness  or 
the  priggishness  or  the  gaucherie  of  some 
of  the  others  !  And  yet  its  very  success 
came  from  begging  the  question,  after  all. 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently.  A 
strong  odor  of  boiling  chocolate  crept 
through  the  transom.  Somebody  began 
to  practise  a  monotonous  accompaniment 
on  the  guitar.  Over  her  head  a  series  of 
startling  bumps  and  jarring  falls  suggested 
a  troupe  of  baby  elephants  practising  for 
their  first  appearance  in  public.  The 
German  assistant  set  her  teeth. 

"  Before  I  die,"  she  announced  to  her 
image  in  the  glass,  "  I  propose  to  in 
quire  flatly  of  Miss  Burgess  if  she  does 
pile  her  furniture  in  a  heap  and  slide 
down  it  on  her  toboggan  !  There  is  no 
other  logical  explanation  of  that  horrible 
disturbance." 

[112] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

The  face  in  the  glass  caught  her  atten 
tion.  It  looked  sallow,  with  lines  under 
the  eyes.  The  hair  rolled  back  a  little 
too  severely  for  the  prevailing  mode, 
and  she  recalled  her  late  visitor's  effec 
tively  adjusted  side-combs,  her  soft,  dark 
waves. 

"  They  have  time  for  it,  evidently," 
she  mused,  "  and  after  all  it  is  certainly 
more  important  than  modal  auxiliaries  !  " 

And  for  half  an  hour  she  twisted  and 
looped  and  coiled,  between  the  chiffonnier 
and  a  hand-glass,  fairly  flushing  with 
pleasure  at  the  result. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  looking  cheerfully  at 
a  pile  of  written  papers,  cc  I '11  take  a 
walk,  I  think  —  a  real  walk."  And  till 
dinner-time  she  tramped  some  of  the  old 
roads  of  her  college  days  —  more  girlish 
than  those  days  had  found  her,  lighter- 
footed,  she  thought,  than  before. 

The  flush  was  still  in  her  cheeks  as 
she  served  her  hungry  tableful,  and  she 
could  not  fail  to  catch  the  meaning  of 

["3] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

their  frank  stares.  Pausing  in  the  parlor 
door  to  answer  a  question,  she  overheard 
a  bit  of  conversation  : 

cc  Doesn't  she  look  well  with  her  hair 
low  ?  Quite  stunning,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  If  only  she  wouldn't 
dress  so  old  !  It  makes  her  look  older 
than  she  is.  That  red  waist  she  wears  in 
the  evening  is  awfully  becoming." 

"  Yes,  I  hate  her  in  dark  things." 

The  regret  that  she  had  not  found 
time  to  put  on  the  red  waist  was  so  in 
stant  and  keen  that  she  laughed  at  her 
self  when  alone  in  her  room.  She  moved 
vaguely  about,  aimlessly  changing  the 
position  of  the  furniture.  How  absurd  ! 
To  do  one's  hair  differently,  and  take  a 
long  walk,  and  feel  as  if  an  old  life  were 
somehow  far  behind  one  ! 

Later  she  found  herself  before  her 
desk,  hunting  for  her  foreign  letter-pa 
per,  and  once  started,  her  pen  flew. 
There  were  long  meditative  lapses,  fol 
lowed  by  nervous  haste,  as  if  to  make  up 

["4] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

the  lost  time  ;  and  just  before  the  ten- 
o'clock  bell  she  slipped  out  to  mail  a  fat 
brown-stamped  envelope.  The  night- 
watchman  chuckled  as  he  watched  the 
head  shrouded  in  the  golf-cape  hood  bend 
a  moment  over  the  little  white  square. 

"  Maybe  it's  one  o'  the  maids,  maybe 
it's  one  o'  the  teachers,  maybe  it's  one  o' 
the  girls,"  he  confided  to  his  lantern ; 
"  they're  all  alike,  come  to  that !  An'  a 
good  thing,  too !  " 

In  the  morning  the  German  assistant 
dismissed  her  last  class  early  and  took 
train  for  Springfield.  On  the  way  to  the 
station  a  deferential  clerk  from  the  book 
shop  waylaid  her. 

"  One  moment,  please.  Those  books 
you  spoke  of.  Mr.  HartwelFs  library  is 
up  at  auction  and  we're  sending  a  man 
to  buy  to-day.  If  you  could  get  the 
whole  set  for  twenty-five  dollars  —  " 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "  I've 
changed  my  mind,  thank  you  —  I  can't 
afford  it.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  a  bargain, 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

but  books  are  such  a  trouble  to  carry 
about,  you  know.  No,  I  don't  think  of 
anything  else." 

What  freedom,  what  a  strange  baseless 
exhilaration  !  Suppose  —  suppose  it  was 
all  a  mistake,  and  she  should  wake  back 
to  the  old  stubborn,  perfunctory  reality  ! 
Perhaps  it  was  better,  saner  —  that  quiet 
taken-for-granted  existence.  Perhaps  she 
regretted  —  but  even  with  the  half-fear  at 
her  heart  she  laughed  at  that.  If  wake 
she  must,  she  loved  the  dream.  How 
she  trusted  that  man  !  tc  Always  I  will 
wait "  —  and  he  would.  But  seven 
years  !  She  threw  the  thought  behind  her. 

The  next  days  passed  in  a  swift,  con 
fused  flight.  She  knew  they  were  all 
discussing  her,  wondering  at  her  changed 
face,  her  fresh,  becoming  clothes  ;  they 
decided  that  she  had  had  money  left  her. 

"  Some  of  my  girls  saw  you  shopping 
in  Springfield  last  Saturday  —  they  say 
you  got  some  lovely  waists,"  said  her 
fellow-assistant  tentatively.  "  Was  this 

[116]   ' 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

one  ?  It's  very  sweet.  You  ought  to 
wear  red  a  great  deal,  you  look  so  well  in 
it.  Did  you  know  Professor  Riggs  spoke 
of  your  hat  with  wild  enthusiasm  to  Mrs. 
Austin  Sunday  ?  He  said  it  was  won 
derful  what  a  difference  a  stylish  hat 
made.  Not  that  he  meant,  of  course  — 
Well,  it's  lovely  to  be  able  to  get  what 
you  want.  Goodness  knows,  I  wish  I 
could." 

The  other  laughed.  "  Oh,  it's  per 
fectly  easy  if  you  really  want  to,"  she 
said,  "  it  all  depends  on  what  you  want, 
you  know." 

For  the  first  week  she  moved  in  a  kind 
of  exaltation.  It  was  partly  that  her 
glass  showed  her  a  different  woman  :  soft- 
eyed,  with  cheeks  tinted  from  the  long, 
restless  walks  through  the  spring  that 
was  coming  on  with  every  warm,  green 
ing  day.  The  excitement  of  the  letter 
hung  over  her.  She  pictured  her  an 
nouncement,  Fraulein  Miiller's  amazed 
questions. 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

"  c  But  —  but  I  do  not  understand  ! 
You  are  not  well  ? ' 

" '  Perfectly,  thank  you/ 

" c  But  I  am  perfectly  satisfied :  I  do 
not  wish  to  change.  You  are  not  sick, 
then  ? ' 

"  c  Only  of  teaching,  Fraulein.' 

£C  (  But  the  instructorship  —  I  was  go 
ing  to  recommend  —  do  not  be  alarmed  ; 
you  shall  have  it  surely  ! ' 

" c  You  are  very  kind,  but  I  have 
taught  long  enough.' 

" c  Then  you  do  not  find  another  po 
sition  ?  Are  you  to  be  — ' ' 

Always  here  her  heart  sank.  Was 
she  ?  What  real  basis  had  all  this  sweet, 
disturbing  dream  ?  To  write  so  to  a 
man  after  seven  years  !  It  was  not  de 
cent.  She  grew  satiric.  How  embarrass 
ing  for  him  to  read  such  a  letter  in  the 
bosom  of  an  affectionate,  flaxen-haired 
family  !  At  least,  she  would  never  know 
how  he  really  felt,  thank  Heaven.  And 
what  was  left  for  her  then?  To  her 
[118] 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

own  mind  she  had  burned  her  bridges 
already.  She  was  as  far  from  this  place 
in  fancy  as  if  the  miles  stretched  verita 
bly  between  them.  And  yet  she  knew 
no  other  life.  She  knew  no  other  men. 
He  was  the  only  one.  In  a  flash  of 
shame  it  came  over  her  that  a  woman 
with  more  experience  would  never  have 
written  such  a  letter.  Everybody  knew 
that  men  forget,  change,  easily  replace 
first  loves.  Nobody  but  such  a  clois 
tered,  academic  spinster  as  she  would  have 
trusted  a  seven  years'  promise.  This 
was  another  result  of  such  lives  as  they 
led  —  such  helpless,  provincial  women. 
Her  resentment  grew  against  the  place. 
It  had  made  her  a  fool. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  she  had 
omitted,  in  deference  to  the  day,  the 
short  skirt  and  walking-hat  of  her  week 
day  stroll.  Sunk  in  accusing  shame,  her 
cheeks  flaming  under  her  wide,  dark  hat, 
her  quick  step  more  sweeping  than  she 
knew,  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  she  just 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

escaped  collision  with  a  suddenly  loom 
ing  masculine  figure.  A  hasty  apology, 
a  startled  glance  of  appeal,  a  quick  breath 
that  parted  her  lips,  and  she  was  past  the 
stranger.  But  not  before  she  had  caught 
in  his  eyes  a  look  that  quickened  her  heart, 
that  soothed  her  angry  humility.  The 
sudden  sincere  admiration,  the  involun 
tary  tribute  to  her  charm,  was  new  to  her, 
but  the  instinct  of  countless  generations 
made  it  as  plain  and  as  much  her  pre 
rogative  as  if  she  had  been  the  most  suc 
cessful  debutante.  She  was  not,  then,  an 
object  of  pity,  to  be  treasured  for  the 
sake  of  the  old  days ;  other  men,  too  — 
the  impulse  outstripped  thought,  but  she 
caught  up  with  it. 

"  How  dreadful !  "  she  murmured, 
with  a  consciousness  of  undreamed  depths 
in  herself.  "  Of  course  he  is  the  only 
one  —  the  only  one  !"  and  across  the 
water  she  begged  his  forgiveness. 

But  through  all  her  agony  of  doubt  in 
the  days  that  followed,  one  shame  was 
[120] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

miraculously  removed,  one  hope  sang 
faintly  beneath  :  she,  too,  had  her  power  ! 
A  glance  in  the  street  had  called  her  from 
one  army  of  her  sisters  to  the  other,  and 
the  difference  was  inestimable. 

Her  classes  stared  at  her  with  naive 
admiration.  The  girls  in  the  house 
begged  for  her  as  a  chaperon  to  Am- 
herst  entertainments,  and  sulked  when  a 
report  that  the  young  hosts  found  her  too 
attractive  to  enable  strangers  to  distinguish 
readily  between  her  and  her  charges  ren 
dered  another  selection  advisable.  The 
fact  that  her  interest  in  them  was  fitful, 
sometimes  making  her  merry  and  inti 
mate,  sometimes  relegating  them  to  a 
connection  purely  professional,  only  left 
her  more  interesting  to  them  ;  and  boxes 
of  flowers,  respectful  solicitations  to 
spreads,  and  tempting  invitations  to  long 
drives  through  the  lengthening  afternoons 
began  to  elect  her  to  an  obvious  popu 
larity.  Once  it  would  have  meant  much 
to  her  ;  she  marvelled  now  at  the  little 
[121] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

shade  of  jealousy  with  which  her  colleagues 
assured  her  of  it.  How  long  must  she 
wait  ?  When  would  life  be  real  again  ? 

She  seemed  to  herself  to  move  in  a 
dream  that  heightened  and  strained 
quicker  as  it  neared  an  inevitable  shock 
of  waking  —  to  what  ?  Even  at  the  best, 
to  what?  Even  supposing  that  —  she 
put  it  boldly,  as  if  it  had  been  another 
woman  —  she  should  marry  the  man  who 
had  asked  her  seven  years  ago,  what  was 
there  in  the  very  obvious  future  thus  as 
sured  her  that  could  match  the  hopes  her 
heart  held  out  ?  How  could  it  be  at  once 
the  golden  harbor,  the  peaceful  end  of 
hurried,  empty  years,  and  the  delicious, 
shifting  unrest  that  made  a  tumult  of  her 
days  and  nights  ?  Yet  something  told 
her  that  it  was ;  something  repeated  in 
sistently,  "  Always  I  will  wait."  .  .  . 
He  would  keep  faith,  that  grave,  big 
man  ! 

But  every  day,  as  she  moved  with 
tightened  lips  to  the  table  where  the  mail 
[122] 


A   REVERSION   TO  TYPE 

lay  spread,  coloring  at  a  foreign  stamp, 
paling  with  the  disappointment,  her  hope 
grew  fainter.  He  dared  not  write  and 
tell  her.  It  was  over.  Violet  shadows 
darkened  her  eyes ;  a  feverish  flush  made 
her,  as  it  grew  and  faded  at  the  slightest 
warning,  more  girlish  than  ever. 

But  the  young  life  about  her  seemed 
only  to  mock  her  own  late  weakened  im 
pulse.  It  was  not  the  same.  She  was 
playing  heavy  stakes :  they  hardly  real 
ized  the  game.  All  but  one,  they  irri 
tated  her.  This  one,  since  her  first  short 
call,  had  come  and  come  again.  No  ex 
planations,  no  confidences,  had  passed 
between  them  ;  their  sympathy,  deep- 
rooted,  expressed  itself  perfectly  in  the 
ordinary  conventional  tone  of  two  re 
served  if  congenial  natures.  The  girl  did 
not  discuss  herself,  the  woman  dared  not. 
They  talked  of  books,  music,  travel  ; 
never,  as  if  by  tacit  agreement,  of  any  of 
the  countless  possible  personalities  in  a 
place  so  given  to  personal  discussion. 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

She  could  not  have  told  how  she  knew 
that  the  girl  had  come  to  college  to  please 
a  mother  whose  great  regret  was  to  have 
missed  such  training,  nor  did  she  remem 
ber  when  her  incurious  friend  had  learned 
her  tense  determination  of  flight;  she 
could  have  sworn  that  she  had  never 
spoken  of  it.  Sometimes,  so  perfectly 
did  they  appear  to  understand  each  other 
beneath  an  indifferent  conversation,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  words  must  be  the 
merest  symbols,  and  that  the  girl  who 
always  caught  her  lightest  shade  of  mean 
ing  knew  to  exactness  her  alternate  hope 
and  fear,  the  rudderless  tossing  toward 
and  from  her  taunting  harbor-light. 

They  sat  by  an  open  window,  breathing 
in  the  moist  air  from  the  fresh,  upturned 
earth.  The  gardeners  were  working  over 
the  sprouting  beds  ;  the  sun  came  in  warm 
and  sweet. 

"  Three  weeks  ago  it  was  almost  cold 
at  this  time,"  said  the  girl.  "In  the 
springtime  I  give  up  going  home,  and 


A   REVERSION  TO   TYPE 

love  the  place.  But  two  years  more  — 
two  years  !  " 

cc  Do  you  really  mind  it  so  much  ?" 

"  I  think  what  I  mind  the  most  is  that 
I  don't  like  it  more,"  said  the  girl  slowly. 
"  Mamma  wanted  it  so.  She  really  loved 
study.  I  don't,  but  if  I  did  —  I  should 
love  it  more  than  this.  This  would  seem 
so  childish.  And  if  I  just  wanted  a  good 
time,  why,  then  this  would  seem  such  a 
lot  of  trouble.  All  the  good  things  here 
seem  —  seem  remedies  !  " 

The  older  woman  laughed  nervously. 
Three  weeks  —  three  weeks  and  no  word ! 

"You  will  be  making  epigrams,  my 
dear,  if  you  don't  take  care,"  she  said 
lightly.  "  But  you're  going  to  finish  just 
the  same  ?  The  girls  like  you,  your  work 
is  good ;  you  ought  to  stay." 

The  girl  flashed  a  look  of  surprise  at 
her.  It  was  her  only  hint  of  sympathy. 

cc  You  advise  me  to  ? "  she  asked 
quietly. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disap- 


A    REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

point  your  mother,"  with  a  light  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  "You  are  so  young  — 
four  years  is  very  little.  Of  course  you 
could  do  the  work  in  half  the  time,  but 
you  admit  that  you  are  not  an  ardent 
student.  If  nobody  came  here  but  the 
girls  that  really  needed  to,  we  shouldn't 
have  the  reputation  that  we  have.  The 
girls  to  whom  this  place  means  the  last 
word  in  learning  and  the  last  grace  of 
social  life  are  estimable  young  women, 
but  not  so  pleasant  to  meet  as  you." 

Three  weeks  —  but  he  had  waited 
seven  years  ! 

"  I  am  very  childish,"  said  the  girl. 
"  Of  course  I  will  stay.  And  some  of  it 
I  like  very  much.  It's  only  that  mam 
ma  doesn't  understand.  She  overesti 
mates  it  so.  Somehow,  the  more  com 
plete  it  is,  the  more  like  everything  else, 
the  more  you  have  to  find  fault  with  on 
all  sides.  I'd  rather  have  come  when 
mamma  was  a  girl." 

"  I  see.     I  have  thought  that,  too." 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

Ah,  fool,  give  up  your  senseless  hope  ! 
You  had  your  chance  —  you  lost  it.  Fate 
cannot  stop  and  wait  while  you  grow  wise. 

"  When  that  shadow  covers  the  hill,  I 
will  give  it  up  forever.  Then  I  will 
write  to  Henry's  wife  and  ask  her  to  let 
me  come  and  help  take  care  of  the  chil 
dren.  She  will  like  it,  and  I  can  get 
tutoring  if  I  want  it.  I  will  make  the 
children  love  me,  and  there  will  be  a 
place  where  I  shall  be  wanted  and  can 
help,"  she  thought. 

The  shadow  slipped  lower.  The  fresh 
turf  steeped  in  the  last  rays,  the  birds 
sang,  the  warming  earth  seemed  to  have 
touched  the  very  core  of  spring.  Her 
hopes  had  answered  the  eager  year,  but 
her  miracle  was  too  wonderful  to  be. 

A  light  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  maid 
came  toward  her,  tray  in  hand.  She  lifted 
the  card  carelessly  —  her  heart  dropped 
a  moment  and  beat  in  hard,  slow  throbs. 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  her  cheeks 
were  hot  and  brilliant. 

[1*7] 


A   REVERSION   TO   TYPE 

"  I  will  be  there  in  a  moment."  How 
deep  her  voice  sounded  ! 

The  girl  slipped  by  her. 

"  I  was  going  anyway,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Good-by  !  Don't  touch  your  hair  — 
it's  just  right." 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but 
went  out.  As  she  passed  by  the  little 
reception-room  a  tall,  eager  man  made 
toward  her  with  outstretched  hands.  Her 
voice  trembled  as  she  laughed. 

"No,  no  —  I'm  not  the  one,"  she 
murmured,  "  but  she  —  she's  coming  !  " 


[I28] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


A    HOPE    DEFERRED 


MISS  SABINA  dropped  a  lump  of 
sugar  into  each  of  the  little  cups 
and  poured  the  coffee  with  a  pretty  care 
fulness,  handing  one  across  the  table  and 
rising  with  a  grace  that  was  almost  girlish. 

"  Shall  we  drink  it  on  the  porch?  "  she 
asked,  in  her  gentle,  deprecating  voice 
with  the  minor  tone  in  it,  that  one  asso 
ciated  with  her  as  closely  as  her  gray 
dress,  her  quaint  old-fashioned  rings,  and 
the  faint  odor  of  dried  rose-leaves  —  not 
attar  or  essence  of  rose,  but  dried  rose- 
leaves —  that  went  with  her  when  she 
walked. 

For  ten  years  she  had  asked  this  ques- 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


tion,  pleasantly,  deferentially  ;  and  for  ten 
years  M.  Laroche  had  taken  his  cup,  pre 
ceded  her  to  the  door  that  opened  directly 
on  the  piazza,  bowed  low  as  he  held  it 
for  her  to  pass,  and  exclaimed  with  an 
ever-fresh  enthusiasm,  "  Ze  porrch,  by 
all  means  ! " 

It  was  a  pleasant  porch  with  a  climbing 
vine  and  a  box  of  scarlet  geraniums,  and 
directly  in  front  of  it  a  little  unfenced 
green  with  a  small  fountain  —  the  park 
of  the  street,  which  was  one  of  those  clean 
and  faded  byways  of  a  rapidly  growing 
city  that  surprise  the  discoverer  with  a 
sense  of  what  the  old  town  used  to  be 
two  generations  ago.  The  rumble  of  the 
city  died  away  before  one  entered  Maple 
Avenue ;  the  women  sat  and  gossiped 
on  the  stoops  ;  the  children  played  hap 
pily  in  the  park ;  the  late  afternoon  seemed 
almost  rural  as  the  sun  slanted  through 
the  maples  that  shaded  either  side  of  the 
narrow,  dusty  road. 

Miss    Sabina  finished  her  coffee  and 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


wiped  her  fingers  daintily.  In  the  fading 
glow  her  pale  hair  turned  almost  golden, 
and  her  soft  cheeks  took  a  deeper  tint  — 
one  realized  what  a  charmingly  pretty 
girl  she  must  have  been.  She  looked 
long  at  the  green  before  them  and  broke 
the  friendly  silence  : 

"  How  well  the  grass  is  looking,  mon 
sieur,  for  this  time  of  year  !  " 

M.  Laroche  beamed  expressively  on 
the  grass.  "  But  how  charming,  Mile. 
Sabine,  and  how  green  !  It  is  also  neat  — 
so  neat !  " 

Miss  Sabina  sighed. 

"  I  suppose  that  in  England  it  is  much, 
much  finer,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  sup 
pose  we  haven't  the  least  idea  of  the 
parks  there  —  one  must  see  them." 

M.  Laroche  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Ah,  ze  parrks  !  C est  possible  —  it 
may  be.  But  zey  are  damp,  verry  damp — 
n'est-ce  fas  ?  " 

Miss  Sabina  smiled  gently  to  herself, 
with  eyes  that  saw  beyond  the  little  green. 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


"  And  the  abbeys,  monsieur  !  West 
minster  and  Oxford  and  Melrose  !  Only 
think  of  standing  —  of  my  standing  —  by 
Melrose  Abbey  !  " 

M.  Laroche  raised  his  brows  eloquently 
and  appeared  lost  in  contemplation  of 
the  picture. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  Indeed  !  "  he  sighed.  "  Zat 
is  a  great  abbey  —  Mel-h-rose  !  " 

"  And  London,  monsieur,  and  the 
Tower !  And  Fleet  Street,  and  Picca 
dilly,  and  the  Strand !  How  strange  it 
is  to  feel  that  you  know  them  so  well, 
that  you  love  them  so  well,  and  yet  that 
you've  never  seen  them.  When  we  used 
to  play,  my  cousins  and  I,  in  Grand 
father  Endicott's  house,  and  choose  what 
pictures  we  would  have,  I  always  took 
c  Melrose  Abbey  from  the  South '  and  a 
big  engraving  of  Windsor  Castle.  The 
children  used  to  laugh  at  me,  but  I  al 
ways  chose  them.  Cousin  Frank  used 
to  tease  me  and  say  that  I'd  never  get 
there,  and  that  girls  couldn't  travel  around 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


like  boys.  Grandmother  Endicott,  too, 
she  was  so  cold  and  distant  toward  me ; 
you  see,  she  hated  poor  mother  so. 
When  Cousin  Frank's  will  was  read  she 
was  very,  very  angry.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  told  you  that  she  said  quite 
publicly  that  it  was  absurd  for  a  woman 
of  my  age  to  be  so  crazy  for  travelling. 
I  thought  that  rather  unkind,  for  she's 
been  so  much  herself.  But  then,  she's 
so  old,  perhaps  she's  not  quite  respon 
sible.  She's  eighty-four,  you  know." 

"  Ah,"  said  M.  Laroche,  with  admira 
tion,  cc  she  is  verry  old,  verry  old  indeed, 
your  grandmozzer ! " 

He  was  as  charmingly  attentive,  as  gal 
lantly  interested,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  it 
all  before  a  hundred  times  over.  Every 
movement  of  his  expressive,  whimsical 
face  meant  courteous  regard ;  every  atti 
tude  of  his  figure,  a  little  bent  now,  in 
clothes  a  little  shabby,  but  so  exquisitely 
mended  and  brushed  and  polished  that 
the  necessity  for  such  artistic  care  seemed 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


almost  fortunate,  expressed  close  and  def 
erential  sympathy  with  the  eager,  vivid 
soul  beside  him. 

And  the  interest  might  well  have  been 
unfeigned,  for  under  those  smooth  gray 
folds  beat  a  vigorous,  determined  heart 
that  forty  years  of  denial  and  monotony 
could  not  still  nor  tame.  The  soft,  calm 
eyes  of  this  New  England  spinster  had 
never  looked  beyond  her  native  town ; 
but  in  fancy  she  had  voyaged  the  seas  for 
years,  and  in  her  dreams  she  wandered 
through  strange  and  wonderful  streets  of 
foreign  lands  and  heard  the  speech  of  all 
the  peoples  of  the  world.  No  school 
boy  was  ever  more  thirsty  for  the  ends  of 
the  earth  than  she ;  this  little  stay-at- 
home  knew  all  the  routes  by  sea  and 
land,  and  delighted  in  the  customs  of  the 
fortunate  dwellers  in  the  places  of  her 
lifelong  desire. 

To-night  her  hand  shook  as  she  laid 
the  coffee-cup  aside,  and  the  flush  in  her 
cheeks  did  not  die  with  the  sunset.  A 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


twinge  of  remorse  defied  her  tremulous 
joy ;  a  nervous  fear  of  her  unworthiness 
came  over  her,  and  it  was  with  an  un 
certain  voice  that  she  approached  her 
friend. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  were  almost  too  old, 
monsieur.  Perhaps  some  younger  per 
son  ought  to  have  it,  after  all.  I've  gone 
on  so  long  without  it  — 

"  I  asked  Mr.  Alden  about  it  last  Sun 
day,  after  morning  service.  I  said  it 
seemed  dreadful  to  be  so  perfectly  happy, 
and  Cousin  Frank  just  dead  !  But  how 
can  I  help  it  ?  Frank  knew  just  how  I'd 
feel.  It's  just  as  he  said :  c  When  I  go 
to  heaven,  Sabina  shall  go  to  Europe,  if 
she's  alive,  and  I  don't  know  which  of 
us'ill  be  the  happier/  And  then  to 
think  of  Miss  Ellsworth  and  her  friends 
going,  and  wanting  me  to  go  with  them 
—  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true !  I 
asked  Mr.  Alden  if  he  thought  Grand 
mother  Endicott  ought  to  have  said  the 
will  was  blasphemous,  and  he  said  no, 


A  HOPE    DEFERRED 


that  it  was  a  nice  will  and  a  kind  one. 
And  I  nearly  cried  right  there.  I  could 
just  get  out,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Alden,  you  don't 
know  what  this  means  to  me  —  you  don't 
know  ! '  and  then  I  had  to  run  right  away, 
or  I'd  have  broken  down." 

M.  Laroche  nodded  sympathetically. 
"  Zat  is  a  good  man,  M.  Aldenne,  tres 
aimable  —  most  kind.  I  sink  every  one 
likes  heem.  It  is  but  yesterday  zat  he 
has  asked  me,  c  And  where  do  you  go 
when  Mees  Sabina  is  away,  monsieur  ? 
You  will  not  find  anozzer  soch  landlady, 
hein  ?  I  sink  not.'  He  is  a  kind  man." 

"  Miss  Ellsworth  wanted  me  to  take 
some  German  lessons,  and  there  was  a 
f  Life  of  Goethe '  she  wanted  me  to  read. 
But  I  couldn't  do  that.  The  time's  so 
short  now.  And  I'm  too  old  to  go  to 
school  again.  So  I  just  had  to  tell  her 
then  and  there. 

" (  Miss  Ellsworth,'  I  said, c  it  isn't  quite 
the  same  with  me  as  'tis  with  you. 
You've  been  before  and  you  know  all  the 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


places  from  experience,  not  just  as  I  do 
from  books,  so  I'm  glad  to  go  with  you. 
But  I  must  tell  you,  Miss  Ellsworth, 
that  I'm  not  going  to  learn,  the  way  you 
are.  I'm  just  going  for  pleasure  and 
happiness  and  comfort,  and  nothing  else. 
You  know  how  it  is  with  me.  All  my 
life  I've  had  to  stay  right  here,  and  I 
could  only  live  decently  and  as  father 
would  have  wanted  me  to  live  —  we're 
Endicotts,  you  know,  if  we  are  the  poor 
branch  —  by  scrimping  and  saving  and 
being  very,  very  careful,  and  making 
things  last.  Almost  the  last  thing  poor 
father  said  to  me  was  to  keep  things  up. 
cc  c  <c  There's  just  enough,  Sabina,  if 
you're  careful,  to  do  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
want  you  should  always  have  the  house 
neat,  and  a  good,  plain,  nice  little  dinner 
with  the  silver,  and  a  cup  of  coffee  after, 
and  a  bottle  of  wine  kept,  in  case  mother 
should  ever  come  in.  And  the  engrav 
ings  and  the  pianoforte  and  those  mahog 
any  things,  and  the  mother-o'-pearl  cabi- 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


net  —  never  let  'em  go,  Sabina.  When 
they  come  in  to  our  funerals  I  don't 
want  anybody  to  be  ashamed  of  the  Endi- 
cotts  —  it's  a  gentleman's  house." 

"c  So  I've  kept  everything  up,'  I  said, 
c  though  many's  the  time  I'd  have  given 
the  world  to  let  Hannah  go,  and  do  for 
myself,  and  sell  the  things,  and  just  get 
to  Europe,  and  tramp  through  it,  if  I  had 
to,  like  those  two  teachers  from  your 
school.  But  of  course  'twould  have 
been  ridiculous  —  a  woman  of  my  age  ! 
And  I  didn't  dare  take  the  money  for 
the  funeral  and  if  sickness  should  come, 
and  go  with  that,  for  it  would  break 
father's  heart  —  he  had  it  all  planned  out. 
And  of  course  a  woman  doesn't  need 
to  go  —  'tisn't  as  if  I  were  a  man  — ' 

M.  Laroche  pursed  his  lips  and  shook 
his  head  thoughtfully. 

"  But  if  zat  is  ze  sing  you  want,  what 
deeference  is  it  zat  you  are  not  a  man  ?  " 
he  asked  luminously. 

Miss  Sabina  threw  him  a  grateful 
glance. 

[140] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


£C  c  So  you  see,  Miss  Ellsworth/  I  said, 
c  here's  my  chance.  Now,  I  don't  care 
if  I  don't  understand  them  in  Paris  or 
Berlin.  I  can  see  them,  I  can  hear  them, 
I  can  walk  on  the  sidewalks  and  breathe 
the  air,  can't  I  ?  I  can  see  the  shops 
and  the  houses  and  the  palaces  and  the 
canals,  and  how  the  sky  looks  there.  I 
can  go  from  one  country  to  another,  and 
be  on  the  ocean,  and  perhaps  I  can  see 
the  Alps.  I  don't  need  to  know  French 
and  German  to  appreciate  them,  do  I  ? 
I  want  to  just  go  and  drink  it  in  and 
realize  that  it's  really  I  —  that  I'm  there. 
There's  only  ten  weeks  or  so,  and  then 
I'll  come  home,  but  I'll  live  on  it  all  the 
rest  of  my  life  ! '  Oh,  monsieur,  what 
will  I  care  that  I  haven't  any  money 
then  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  glowing,  her  breath 
came  fast ;  she  was  home  again,  in  fancy, 
with  her  precious  load  of  memories  and 
experiences,  and  down  on  her  knees  be 
fore  the  treasures  that  were  to  adorn  her 
henceforth  quiet  life. 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


M.  Laroche  looked  at  her  with  admira 
tion. 

"  Mam'selle,    vous    etes    vrande   dame^ 

o 

vous"  he  said,  wondering  at  the  pink 
flush  and  the  thrown-back  head. 

She  sank  back,  ashamed  of  such  a  dis 
play  of  feeling. 

"  I  run  on  like  a  chatterbox  of  a  girl," 
she  said  shyly.  "  You'll  think  I'm  a  self 
ish,  talkative  old  thing,  monsieur." 

He  bowed  gallantly. 

"  Zat  would  never  be,  Mile.  Sabine," 
he  said.  "  And  your  affairs,  are  zey  not 
mine  ?  But  yes  !  Indeed  !  " 

They  sat  quietly  for  a  time,  in  the 
dusk,  watching  the  evening  star  grow 
before  them,  enjoying  the  cool  stillness 
and  the  scent  of  the  freshly  watered 
green.  The  young  people  strolling  by 
now  and  then  smiled  at  them  for  a  con 
tented  pair  of  middle-aged  friends,  and 
thought  their  pleasant  quiet  the  placid 
repose  of  those  who  have  tacitly  done 
with  life  and  its  strong  tides  of  feeling. 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


They  could  not  know  that  the  woman 
with  the  softly  parted  hair  was  all  a-trem- 
ble  for  romance,  thirsty  for  adventure, 
bohemian-souled  and  utterly  fearless ; 
they  could  not  see  the  heart  of  the  little 
foreigner  with  the  shabby  clothes  and  gray 
imperial,  how  it  was  eaten  up  with  home 
sickness  and  regret  —  with  all  his  grati 
tude  to  his  gentle  hostess  —  for  France, 
with  her  queen  city,  her  familiar  sights  and 
smells,  her  zest  and  color,  and  more  than 
all,  the  fishing-coast  where  his  mother  had 
rocked  him  to  sleep  in  sight  of  the  sails. 

They  sighed  together,  and  blushed, 
and  glanced  quickly  aside,  and  Miss 
Sabina  rose  hastily  and  slipped  through 
the  long  French  window. 

"Shall  I  sing?"  she  asked,  not  waiting 
for  an  answer  to  a  question  of  such  long 
usage.  While  she  felt  through  the  dusk 
to  the  old  pianoforte,  M.  Laroche  lit  his 
cigarette  and  waited  with  gentle  expecta 
tion.  The  lilacs  from  the  next  yard 
drifted  in  and  met  the  faint  odor  from 

[143] 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


the  old  china  rose-jar  that  stood  on  the 
polished  mahogany  table  inside.  The 
first  few  notes  of  the  piano  carried  with 
them  to  him  who  knew  the  room  so  well 
a  never-fading  picture  of  the  peaceful, 
old-time  parlor :  the  willow  plates  in  the 
mother-o'-pearl  cabinet,  the  "Sistine  Ma 
donna  "  and  Correggio's  "  Holy  Night/' 
the  dim  oil-paintings  that  great-grand 
mother  Endicott  had  made  so  long  ago, 
the  bronze  Chinese  idol  that  squatted 
near  the  rose-jar,  the  dusky,  elusive  pier- 
glass  with  its  dull  gilding  of  another  gen 
eration  and  its  mysterious,  haunting 
reflections  —  they  were  all  confused  with 
the  tune  that  Miss  Sabina's  sweet,  reedy 
voice  had  so  often  quavered  through  ;  a 
tune  that  she  would  not  have  known  by 
its  title  of  "  Fair  Harvard  "  : 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 
That  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 

Were  to  change  by  to-morrow  and  to  fleet 

in  my  arms, 
Like  fairy  gifts  fading  away, 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored  as  this  moment 

thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my 

heart 
Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

Miss  Sabina  knew  other  songs  — 
"When  other  lips  and  other  hearts," 
and  "  Joys  that  we've  tasted,"  and 
"Come  with  thy  lute  to  the  fountain"; 
but  into  this  one  she  threw  most  mar 
vellously  all  the  passion  of  her  yet  girl 
ish,  tender  heart ;  and  the  yellow  keys 
yielded  to  her  tremulous  touch  a  throb 
bing,  jarring  melody  that  came  to  the 
listener  like  an  old  perfume  from  some 
dusty,  just  found  rose-jar  of  a  long- 
dead  beauty. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned.by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be 

known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more 
dear. 

CHS] 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


M.  Laroche  smiled. 

" c  And  zy  chicks  onprofenned  by  a 
tearr/  "  he  repeated  softly.  "  Ah,  yes  ! 
Indeed!" 

No ;  the  heart  that  has  truly  lov'd  never 

forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he 

sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turn'd  when  he 
rose. 

The  last  faint  quaver  died  away,  there 
was  a  light  rustle  of  skirts,  and  Miss  Sa- 
bina  stood  at  the  window. 

"  Good  night,  monsieur,'*  she  said 
softly. 

M.  Laroche  tossed  away  the  end  of 
his  cigarette. 

"  Vous  chant ez  tres  bien,  mademoiselle" 
he  said,  with  his  inimitable  bow.  "  Good 
night." 

And  with  this,  his  invariable  phrase, 
he  went  to  his  room  off  the  piazza. 


A   HOPE    DEFERRED 


Miss  Sabina  had  been  waiting  a  long 
time  when  he  came  to  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  heavy-eyed  from  a  night  which 
he  admitted  to  have  been  sleepless,  and 
too  tired  to  present  his  apologies  with 
the  whimsical  grace  that  gave  his  sim 
plest  words  and  acts  such  a  kindly  flavor. 
His  hostess  watched  his  untouched  plate 
with  concern,  and  suddenly  cut  short  her 
small,  friendly  confidences  of  ways  and 
means  for  the  summer,  struck  by  his 
languid  manner  and  weary  eyes. 

"Why,  monsieur,  you're  eating  noth 
ing  !  Is  it  the  headache  again  ?  You 
surely  won't  go  out  to-day  and  try  to 
teach  —  it's  too  much !  " 

He  tried  to  rally,  and  smiled  bravely 
at  her  anxious  eyes,  made  his  little  nega 
tive  gesture  that  was  half  gratitude  to  the 
questioner,  and  would  have  turned  the 
talk ;  but  Miss  Sabina  was  alarmed  in 
earnest.  The  thought  that  he  might  be 
alone  and  sick  in  the  summer  cut  sharply 
for  a  second,  and  her  quick  fancy  saw 

EH?] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


him  in  the  agony  of  his  terrible  head 
aches,  housed  with  strangers,  lonely  and 
too  proud  to  ask  for  help.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  she  leaned  impul 
sively  across  the  table. 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  you're  ill  —  you're 
really  ill !  "  she  cried.  "  Go  to  the  doc 
tor  —  promise  me  you'll  go  !  You've 
not  been  the  same  for  a  week,  now; 
you've  been  so  tired  and  worn.  I've 
noticed  it  ever  since  last  week.  It  was 
when  I  first  got  the  notice  from  Cousin 
Frank's  lawyer  that  the  money  was  in  the 
bank  that  you  had  that  terrible  headache; 
don't  you  know  how  we  sat  and  talked 
till  so  late,  and  I  was  so  excited  ?  And 
I've  been  talking  so  much  and  planning 
so  hard  that  I  haven't  thought — oh,  I'm 
very  selfish,  monsieur!  It's  terrible  to 
think  of  you  being  sick  just  when  I'm 
so  happy.  You'll  go  to  the  doctor? 
Promise  me  you  will ! " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  zere  is  no  need  for  a  doctorre, 
[I48] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


Mile.  Sabine,  indeed  no  !  It  is  only  to 
day  —  I  am  well  to-morrow.  Not  to 
sleep,  it  makes  one  weary  for  the  day — 
ri est-ce  pas?  It  is  not  a  good  country 
for  sleep,  I  have  found.  In  France  I 
have  always  slept,  ah,  most  easily  !  But 
here,  no.  In  France  —  " 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  the  room 
was  perfectly  still.  He  looked  at  her, 
but  he  did  not  see  her,  and  Miss  Sabina 
had  a  strange,  swift  memory  of  her  little 
brother  who  died  at  school,  and  the  look 
in  his  eyes  when  he  cried  to  be  taken 
home. 

It  was  over  in  a  moment,  and  M.  La- 
roche  shrugged  his  shoulders  lightly. 

"  One  imagines  I  come  to  America  to 
sleep,  hein  ?  "  he  asked  her,  with  such  a 
humorous,  friendly  smile  that  she  half 
forgot  her  anxiety.  But  before  he  left 
for  the  old  school,  where  dwindling  classes 
lessened  his  scanty  salary  every  year,  she 
had  made  him  promise  to  see  the  doctor 
before  night. 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


"  And  a  cup  of  tea  with  your  lunch — 
don't  forget,  monsieur !  "  she  called  after 
him  as  he  walked  off — she  hated  to  real 
ize  how  slowly,  nowadays.  They  were 
good  friends,  these  two,  and  they  knew 
it  well :  if  she  came  back  and  he  was  not 
there  —  her  heart  contracted  and  seemed 
to  wait  while  she  caught  her  breatli  and 
shook  the  thought  away. 

"  We're  not  so  old  as  that,"  she  whis 
pered  under  her  breath.  "  We're  not 
really  old,  either  of  us  !  " 

All  day  she  thought  about  him,  and  to 
her  just  quickened  sight  much  that  the 
excitement  of  the  past  had  made  trivial 
loomed  suddenly  large  before  her.  She 
realized  how  quiet  he  had  grown  of  late, 
how  seldom  he  essayed  the  jokes,  the  small 
kindly  nonsense,  the  half-serious  homage 
to  her  charm  of  personality  that  bright 
ened  her  life  so  much  —  that  had  been, 
indeed,  almost  her  only  social  pleasure. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  he  had  been  less 
quick  of  comprehension  than  ever  before, 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


less  ready  to  follow  her  mood  with  that 
wonderful  delicacy  of  perception  that  had 
enabled  her — shy,  secluded,  half  troubled 
at  the  restlessness  of  her  own  eager  heart 
—  to  talk  to  him  as  she  had  never  been 
able  to  talk  to  her  only  sister.  She  re 
membered  how  every  innocent  ruse  for 
concealing  the  scantiness  of  a  meal  had 
succeeded  of  late,  and  how  unconsciously 
he  had,  at  any  excuse  of  hers,  eaten  what 
he  would  once  have  indignantly  insisted 
that  she  should  share.  But  more  than 
all  this,  he  had  talked  as  he  had  never 
talked  before  of  his  childhood  and  his 
childhood's  home.  Miss  Sabina  had 
learned  her  Paris  well  from  him  long 
ago.  For  years  in  the  winter  evenings, 
when  they  could  not  enjoy  the  piazza 
and  the  green,  they  had  sat  by  the  Frank 
lin  grate  in  the  sitting-room,  and  she  had 
followed  him  breathlessly  through  "  Les 
Miserables "  —  his  rapid  and  broken 
translation  heightening  incalculably  the 
sense  of  strangeness  and  intensity  —  or 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


he  had  led  her  about  Paris  and  its  out 
skirts  till  she  had  grown  to  an  actual 
intimacy  with  that  city  of  his  dreams  ;  for 
hitherto  it  had  been  Paris  that  he  had 
spoken  of  as  his  home,  where  he  had 
lived  since  he  was  a  boy  of  ten  with  his 
older  brother  Jules,  who  had  written  a 
<c  French  Grammar  for  Beginners  "  and 
was  enrolled  by  M.  Laroche  among  the 
great  lights  of  his  native  literature. 

But  of  late  when  he  spoke  of  France 
it  was  to  no  city  that  he  carried  his  eager 
listener,  but  to  a  little  fishing-village, 
with  the  nets  drying  on  the  sand,  and  the 
setting  sun  on  the  sails,  and  the  clatter  of 
his  white-capped  mother's  sabots  as  she 
led  him  down  to  the  beach  to  kiss  his 
sunburnt  father.  The  rush  and  clamor 
of  the  city  streets  died  away  before  the 
sleepy  Breton  cradle-song,  and  the  lights 
of  the  boulevard  faded  as  he  watched  the 
stars  shine  down  upon  the  sea  in  that 
land  so  far  from  him. 

Miss  Sabina  thought  how  her  father 


A   HOPE    DEFERRED 


toward  the  end  had  told  her  over  and 
over  of  the  games  at  school  and  the  holi 
days  at  the  old  Endicott  home,  and  had 
even  described  the  old  play-room  to  her, 
as  if  his  mother  had  never  ceased  to  love 
him  and  mend  his  broken  toys.  Did 
men  always  remember,  then,  at  the  end  ? 
Did  it  mean  —  but  she  threw  it  off  again 
and  told  herself,  "We're  not  so  old  as 
that !  We're  not  really  old!  " 

At  dinner  that  night  she  would  have 
talked  of  nothing  but  his  health  and  her 
fears  for  his  lonely  summer,  but  he 
would  have  none  of  that. 

"  I  do  quite  well,  you  shall  see,  chere 
mademoiselle ;  I  greet  you  in  ze  autom  at 
ze  —  ze  docke.  You  are  surprise',  you 
do  not  know  me  —  I  am  so  restored! 
Est-ce possible!  ce  pauv*  Laroche!  Comme 
il  se  porte  bien — how  he  is  well !  " 

His  expressive  pantomime,  his  laugh, 
his  old  kindly  smile  as  he  met  her  eyes, 
frankly,  yet  with  that  confidential  regard 
that  seemed  to  say  more  than  his  words, 

[153] 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


almost  deceived  her ;  but  even  as  she 
laughed,  his  lids  drooped,  his  smile  faded, 
and  he  fingered  the  cloth  restlessly  under 
her  steady  gaze. 

"  I  don't  know,  monsieur,  I  don't 
know,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  troubled 
minor  voice.  "  You  weren't  so  well  this 
last  fall,  you  know ;  the  heat  wore  on 
you  dreadfully.  I  wish  you  could  go 
away  somewhere  and  rest  this  summer, 
and  not  take  those  vacation  classes  —  I 
wish  you  would  !  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  R-h-est  ? 
R-h-est  ? "  he  said  softly  to  himself, 
and  with  the  throaty  little  r  that  was 
so  marked  when  he  was  absent-minded. 
"In  zis  country?  Jamais, jamais,  made 
moiselle.  It  is  queeck,  queeck !  imme- 
diatement  —  at  once  !  Teach  me  zis 
moment  —  it  is  no  matter  zat  it  takes 
you  a  lifetime  to  learn  —  teach  me  zis 
moment — I  mus'  know  it  zis  verry  day! 
I  mus'  run  now  to  somesing  else,  but  I 
come  ag-gain,  and  you  teach  me  immedi- 

[154] 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


ately  ag-gain,  for  I  have  forgotten  it  all. 
But  zere  is  no  time  to  lose — no,  indeed!" 

She  was  amazed  at  the  bitterness  of  his 
tone ;  she  could  hardly  understand,  he 
poured  out  the  words  so  quickly,  but 
she  could  see  that  this  was  more  than  a 
passing  irritation,  that  his  years  of  teach 
ing  were  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  Be 
fore  she  could  reply  he  had  risen  and 
opened  the  door,  and  she  found  herself 
passing  through  to  the  porch  without 
the  formula  of  invitation  that  preceded 
the  coffee.  When  he  joined  her  with 
the  neglected  cups  the  storm  had  passed, 
and  as  he  talked  quietly  of  the  prepara 
tion  for  the  voyage  that  had  formed  the 
subject  of  their  evening  conversation  for 
weeks,  she  could  hardly  realize  the  depths 
of  weariness  and  loathing  that  the  sudden 
glimpse  of  exhausted  patience  had  shown 
her. 

That  night  Miss  Sabina  did  not  sing. 
She  played  through  two  or  three  of  the 
stiff,  sweet  little  preludes,  but  the  lilacs 

[155] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


were  so  strong,  the  old  melodies  waked 
such  confused,  excited  sadness  in  her, 
that  the  songs  would  not  come.  The 
sight  of  that  keen,  drooping  profile  dark 
against  the  orange  glow  reproached  her 
somehow  with  its  loneliness — how  many 
weeks  he  would  sit  alone!  —  and  she  rose 
hastily  and  went  out  again. 

"You  do  not  sing?  You  have  not  ze 
mood,  hein  ?  Eh  bien^  not  to  sing,  it  is 
well  sometimes."  .  .  .  And  they  sat  in 
silence  long  after  the  stars  came  out. 

That  night  Miss  Sabina  slept  lightly. 
Strange,  confused  dreams,  half-conscious 
delusions,  troubled  her  with  voices  that 
she  knew  were  unreal,  that  yet  murmured 
and  muttered  and  droned,  till,  in  her 
effort  to  dismiss  them  and  sink  to  deeper 
sleep,  she  woke  with  a  start.  Surely  some 
one  was  talking  !  She  hesitated,  and  from 
somewhere  below  her  came  the  sound  of 
a  voice  that  rose  and  fell  almost  monot 
onously  —  not  loud,  but  clear  and  con- 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


tinuous.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation 
she  got  out  of  bed,  put  on  a  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  and  opening  her  door 
quietly,  paused  a  moment  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  before  going  down.  Without 
doubt  it  was  a  voice,  and  only  one.  The 
fear  that  a  more  timid  woman  would  have 
felt  in  the  first  uncertainty  of  waking  came 
to  her  now  with  the  conviction  that  this 
was  no  thief,  no  stranger,  but  her  ten 
years'  friend,  speaking  with  a  passionate 
earnestness  that  terrified  her ;  appealing 
—  to  whom  ?  —  with  a  sadness,  a  despair, 
that  wrung  her  heart. 

She  slipped  like  a  shadow  down  the 
stair,  and  crouching  on  the  lowest  step, 
she  listened  breathlessly  for  a  moment. 
Ah,  yes  !  It  was  to  her  he  was  talking ! 
Her  own  name,  in  his  strange,  sweet, 
French  handling  of  it,  came  to  her 
through  the  half-open  door.  She  looked 
through  the  warped  and  widened  crack  at 
the  side,  where  the  light  streamed  through, 
unconscious  of  the  time,  the  place,  even 

[157] 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


of  her  silent,  peering  attitude,  knowing 
only  that  a  deep,  ominous  excitement 
thrilled  her  to  the  very  centre  of  her  soul. 

He  had  sunk  exhausted  on  the  narrow 
white  bed,  a  thin,  pathetic  figure  in  a 
faded,  mended  silk  dressing-gown,  with 
a  tired  white  face  and  black  eyes  that 
glowed  like  coals.  His  hands  were 
clinched  between  his  knees,  his  head 
hung  upon  his  breast.  His  voice  was 
weak  and  strained  now,  no  longer  the 
deep  tone  that  had  waked  her,  and  his 
quaint  broken  English,  as  if  he  saw  her 
there  before  him,  was  sadder  than  any 
eloquence. 

" c  But  you  will  go  to  ze  doctorre  — 
promise  me  you  will  go.'  Ah,  mon  Dieu, 
Mile.  Sabine,  what  good  is  zat  ?  I  want 
no  doctorre  —  me  ;  I  want  my  home  ! 
To  you,  what  is  it  ?  But  only  a  strange 
land,  a  new  people,  a  voyage,  and  you 
come  back.  Ah,  me,  I  am  twelve  years 
away  !  Twelve  years  away  ! 

<c  c  You  work  too  hard,  you  need  rest.' 

[158] 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


I  tell  heem  I  must  work  ;  I  come  here  to 
work  —  would  I  rest  here  ? 

" c  You  must  go  back  to  France,  you 
fret  yourself  too  much  ;  you  have  ze  weak 
heart,  monsieur,  you  are  here  too  long 
already/  Dame  !  Is  it  zat  I  stay  for  my 
pleasure  ? 

" c  I  have  no  medicine  for  you,  mon 
sieur;  it  is  not  ze  doctorre  nor  ze  ton- 
ique  nor  ze  r-h-est  for  you  —  it  is  to  go 
home.  Ze  systemme  it  runs  down, 
down,  zen  ze  heart  it  grows  weak, 
weak,  and  zen,  monsieur,  vous  savez,  it 
stops/  .  .  . 

cc  c  MaiSy  monsieur,  I  cannot  go,  I  have 
not  ze  money  —  ze  school  grows  small, 
I  am  so  often  sick/  Ah,  mademoiselle, 
figure  to  yourself!  I,  Sylvestre  Laroche, 
say  zis  to  a  stranger  —  I  speak  so  ! 

cc  c  It  is  to  regret,  monsieur.  Zere  is 
no  friend — ? ' 

" c  Monsieur,  I  have  no  money  but  a 
little  ;  how  shall  I  pay  ? ' 

"  Ah,  Mile.  Sabine,  how  can  I  laugh 

[159] 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


wiz  you  ?  How  shall  I  stay  alone  ?  But 
how  can  I  go  ?  I  know  so  few.  I  say, 
1  Lend  me  money  so  zat  I  go  home,'  and 
zey  say  to  me,  c  Mon  Dieu,  M.  Laroche, 
how  do  you  pay  zis  money  ?  To 
morrow  ?  Next  year  ? '  I  do  not  know.  I 
cannot  tell  zem.  .  .  . 

cc  c  And  if  I  go,  monsieur,  I  am  well  ? 
I  need  fear  no  more  ze  heart  ? '  c  Ah, 
monsieur,  who  can  tell  ?  Maybe  yes, 
maybe  no.  It  is  to  guard  well  against 
ze  worry,  ze  alarrm,  ze  queeck  starrt  — 
vous  savez  ?  Ten  years,  five  years,  one 
year  —  I  cannot  tell,  monsieur/ 

"Cest  terrible,  nest-ce  pas,  Mile.  Sa- 
bine  ?  Vous  partez  demain.  You  are  so 
soon  gone,  and  I  stay  here !  And  I  am 
twelve  years  away  from  home  —  and  I 
have  ze  weak  heart.  Vous  me  dites  c  au 
revoir,  mademoiselle  —  mot,  je  vous  dis 
<  adieu.'  " 

The  woman  crouching  on  the  stair  bit 
her  lip  and  pressed  her  finger-nails  into 
her  hands  to  keep  back  the  sobs  that 
[160] 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


shook  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
must  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart,  that 
every  long,  hard  breath  would  surely 
startle  him.  So  helpless,  so  poor,  so 
horribly,  hopelessly  sad !  She  had  read 
of  terrible  homesickness  —  the  Swiss  for 
his  Alps,  the  peasant  for  his  farm  ;  they 
seemed  romantic,  elemental,  vague.  But 
this  little  Frenchman,  this  dapper  chat 
terer  of  the  light-heartedest  language  in 
all  the  world,  did  he  harbor  this  tragedy  ? 
For  to  her  tender,  unworn  heart  the 
tragedy  was  remorselessly  clear.  This 
bent  figure  in  its  faded  dressing-gown ; 
this  face  almost  strange  to  her  in  its 
worn,  gray  anguish  ;  these  nerveless,  half- 
open  hands  —  she  read  them  all  too  well. 

"  Oh,  no,  he  mustn't,  he  mustn't ! " 
she  whispered,  and  grasped  the  banisters, 
and  tried  to  turn  away  her  eyes  :  for  his 
own  filled  slowly  before  her. 

She  got  up  the  stairs,  her  fingers  in 
her  ears,  stumbling  over  the  long  wrap 
per,  seeming  to  herself  to  wake  the  house 
[161] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


with  every  misstep.  She  closed  her  eyes 
not  to  see  that  strained,  white  face,  and 
saw  it  plainer  in  the  dark.  Her  thoughts 
were  all  a  confused  pain,  an  incoherent 
revolt  at  the  cruelty  of  it,  the  help 
lessness  ;  for  what  could  she  do  ?  Even 
she,  who  cared  for  him  so  —  ah,  how  she 
cared  !  — -  what  could  she  — 

Her  hand  jumped  to  her  heart  and 
clutched  rigidly  there ;  her  breath  went, 
and  she  gasped  like  the  drowning  man 
under  the  last  sucking  breaker ;  her 
strength  left  in  a  great  sickening  ebb,  and 
she  grasped  the  bedpost  with  all  her 
might. 

"  No,  no  !  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried 
weakly.  "  Oh,  no  !  "  She  felt  her  way 
to  the  bed  and  dropped  on  it,  utterly  un 
conscious  that  she  had  moved  since  that 
wave  of  desolation  broke  on  her.  She 
seemed  to  have  been  standing  by  the 
bedpost,  grasping  it  hard  and  thinking 
there,  for  years. 

She  saw  him  as  he  had  come  to  her 


A   HOPE    DEFERRED 


so  long  ago  :  handsome,  polite,  younger 
then,  and  merrier  perhaps,  with  his  inim 
itable  bow  and  the  neat  printed  card : 

M.  SYLVESTRE  LAROCHE, 

Paris. 

Irregular  Verbs  a  Specialty. 
Conversation  Classes  Formed. 

How  she  had  admired  him  !  She  had 
felt  sure  that  father  would  never  have 
objected  to  his  lodging  there,  recom 
mended  by  Mr.  Alden,  too !  How 
amusing  he  had  been,  how  constantly 
cheerful ;  how  exquisitely  sympathetic 
when  her  sister  died !  She  could  not 
send  him  away  then. 

He  had  been  so  gentle,  so  thoughtful, 
so  interested  in  all  her  small  affairs,  so 
forgetful  of  his  own.  How  grateful  he 
was  for  the  slightest  attendance  when  his 
terrible  headaches  weakened  him  for  days, 
and  how  charmingly  he  had  thanked  her 
for  what  she  had  done !  Hardly  a  day 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


during  that  long  winter  sickness,  when 
she  would  have  died  if  left  alone  to  her 
nervous  melancholy,  that  he  did  not 
bring  home  some  flower  or  bit  of  fruit. 
She  guessed  later  what  meagre  lunches 
had  made  their  purchase  possible.  One 
of  his  pupils  would  have  taken  him 
South  for  the  winter  vacation,  but  he  had 
refused  and  stayed  with  her.  And  the 
cold  tried  him  so. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  this,  monsieur," 
she  had  said,  when  she  found  it  out ;  she 
had  not  thought  to  be  able  to  repay  that 
quiet  sacrifice. 

How  sweetly,  how  sympathetically  he 
had  listened  to  her  plans ;  how  he  had 
helped,  suggested,  advised,  admired,  and 
congratulated  !  The  very  pattern  of  her 
travelling-dress,  the  marking  of  her  trunk 
—  and  he  sick  for  home,  dying  in  a  for 
eign  land ! 

11  Cest  terrible,  nest-ce  'pas,  Mile.  Sa- 
bine?" 

What  was  it,   that  strange  pain   that 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


never  ceased,  that  hopeful,  hopeless  yearn 
ing?  She  had  never  left  her  home  or 
country  ;  she  knew  only  the  happy 
dream  of  one  day  seeing  another,  not  her 
own,  fair,  strange,  and  distant ;  she  was 
homesick  for  new  lands.  Did  he  feel 
what  she  felt  —  did  he  feel  perhaps  more  ? 
Her  heart  cried  out  that  this  could  not 
be,  but  she  hushed  it,  and  saw  him  grow 
ing  slowly  old,  old,  waiting  for  the  lurk 
ing  death  — how  soon  would  it  come  ?  a 
year,  a  month?  —  dreaming  of  France 
and  youth,  waking  to  the  dull  reality  ; 
sitting  alone  in  a  strange,  cheap  boarding- 
house,  while  she  went  gayly  from  land  to 
land. 

"  Vous  me  dites  c  au  revoir,'  mademoi 
selle —  moiyje  vous  dis  'adieu' ' 

She  knew  little  French,  but  she  under 
stood  that,  and  as  that  harsh  sob  rang  in 
her  ears  again,  as  she  saw  that  bent  fig 
ure,  that  hopeless  face,  she  knew  in  one 
quick,  far-seeing  flash  of  bereavement 
that  it  was  over,  that  she  could  bear  her 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


own  sorrow,  but  not  his ;  she  could  stay 
—  she  could  not  let  him.  Waves  of 
pain  broke  against  her  resolution,  tug 
ging  remonstrance,  momentary  weakness, 
passionate  prayers  to  make  this  happiness 
possible  for  both  of  them,  but  beneath  it 
all  was  the  certainty  :  it  was  done. 

She  met  him  at  breakfast  with  a  ner 
vous  flush  that  hid  the  pallor  of  the 
night,  with  a  voice  whose  cheerfulness 
amazed  her,  with  an  excitement  she  had 
never  thought  to  feel  again.  He  was 
gaunt  and  hollow-eyed,  and  yielded  read 
ily  to  her  persuasions  to  stay  at  home, 
rousing  himself  to  assure  her  that  he 
would  allow  this  small  indulgence  only 
because  she  was  going  so  soon. 

"It  is  but  four  —  five  days  now,  and 
you  are  gone,  Mile.  Sabine,  and  zen  I 
shall  not  want  ze  vacation,  hein  ?  So  I 
stay.  I  have  but  one  class  only,  and  I 
sink  I  do  not  teach  it  well  to-day,"  he 
said,  with  elaborate  cheerfulness.  She 
[166] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


poured  the  coffee  and  drank  a  little  of 
her  own. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  I  shall  be  gone  in 
four  or  five  days,  monsieur,"  she  re 
turned  easily. 

He  stared  vaguely  at  her.  "  No  ? 
You  wait  for  some  one  take  ze  place  of 
M.  Ellsworse  ?  " 

She  drew  a  long  breath  and  clasped 
her  hands  beneath  the  table. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  with  an  almost 
humorous  smile,  "  I  suppose  you'll  think 
I'm  a  very  silly  woman,  but  I  can't  help 
it  —  I've  about  decided  I'm  not  going  at 
all." 

"  M, ais,  mademoiselle,  quavez-vous  done? 
What  is  zis  zat  you  say  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  see,  I've  lived  here  now  more 
than  forty  years,  and  when  I  came  to 
think  of  leaving  Hannah  and  the  house 
and  father's  things  —  and  the  house  isn't 
insured  —  and  when  I  remembered  how 
Miss  Ellsworth  is  seasick  —  " 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


"  Mais,  Mile.  Sabine,  ce  nest  pas  pos 
sible ;  zis  is  in  fon  zat  you  talk  —  " 

"  Indeed,  it  is  not,  monsieur;  I'm  in 
earnest.  You  see,  I'm  at  home" — her 
voice  fell,  and  she  paused  a  moment  — 
"  I'm  quite  safe  here.  If  I  should  get 
sick  in — in  England,  who'd  take  care  of 
me  ?  It  is  not  as  if  I  were  young  and 
strong ;  it  is  not  as  if  Miss  Ellsworth 
was  to  be  with  me  always.  And  I  can't 
speak  French  or  German,  and  —  and  all 
these  steamer  accidents  frighten  me  ter 
ribly  !  I  just  lie  awake  nights  imag 
ining —  " 

"Mais,  maisy  Mile.  Sabine  —  " 

His  startled,  tired  face  was  too  much 
for  her :  he  was  too  exhausted  to  adjust 
himself  to  this  sudden  turn,  and  some 
instinct  warned  her  to  go  straight  ahead 
and  say  it  all,  before  he  had  time  to  no 
tice  her  dark-ringed  eyes  and  nervous, 
broken  voice. 

"  Don't  you  see,  monsieur,  what  I'm 
trying  to  say  ? "  she  asked  quickly. 
[168] 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


"  Don't  you  see  that  we've  both  been 
planning  wrong?  that  it's  I  who  ought 
to  stay,  and  you  who  ought  to  go?  No, 
no ;  let  me  finish  !  Here  am  I,  a  fussy 
old  maid,  born  and  brought  up  here  all 
my  life,  silly  enough  to  imagine  I  could 
ever  really  like  it  away  from  home.  Why, 
monsieur,  do  you  like  it  away  from  home? 
And  here  are  you,  who  want  a  vacation, 
who'd  like  to  see  your  friends  and  your 
family,  who'd  thoroughly  enjoy  every 
minute  of  it.  It's  you  who  can  take  Mr. 
Ellsworth's  berth,  dear  monsieur !  We're 
such  old  friends,  you  and  I  — " 

"  Mile.  Sabine  !  I  take  your  money, 
par  exemple  !  I  go  —  ah^jamais  de  la  vie! 
Cest  impossible — " 

He  dropped  his  head  upon  his  arms, 
and  she  leaned  over  him,  stroking  his 
hair,  holding  his  hands,  her  timidity 
utterly  gone,  her  heart  carried  away  and 
exalted  above  all  girlishness  in  the  mag 
nitude  of  her  love  and  sacrifice.  For 
this  hour  he  was  hers  —  her  child  to  com- 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


fort,  her  brother  to  help,  her  lover,  for 
whom  any  offering  was  too  small.  She 
was  no  longer  the  ignorant,  untravelled 
little  spinster :  she  had  flung  away  all 
her  own  hopes  and  fears  to  be  the  life 
and  happiness  of  one  poor  soul  that  had 
none  but  her,  and  at  that  height  the 
world  seems  small  indeed. 

"  Mais,  mademoiselle,  I  take  your 
money  and  go  home,  I  restore  myself, 
I  return  —  how  do  I  pay  ?  I  sink  till 
now  zat  you  desire  to  go  more  zan  to  do 
anysing — I  say  nossing  zen.  Now  zat 
you  fear  to  go,  you  want  your  home  (ah, 
Mile.  Sabine,  vous  avez  raison :  to  be 
home,  c  est  le  parodist),  now  I  tell  you 
zat,  I,  too,  I  die  if  I  go  not  back  to 
France!  I  am  too  long  away.  .  .  .  But 
how  do  I  pay  ?  I  pay  someway,  vous 
savez,  I  will  not  go  else ! " 

"  But,  monsieur,  you  will  get  it  when 
you  get  there  !  Don't  you  remember 
your  brother's  book  —  the  Grammar  ? 
You  always  said  that  if  ever  you  got  to 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


France  you  could  make  them  give  you 
that  share.  It's  yours,  monsieur :  you 
ought  to  have  it !  " 

His  face  flushed ;  he  seized  her  hands 
and  clutched  them  till  she  could  have 
screamed  with  the  pain.  He  babbled 
incoherent  thanks  and  blessings.  He 
saw  himself  returned  with  double  her 
loan.  His  delight  was  childish  to  think 
that  he  should  have  forgotten  that ! 
And  when,  struck  by  sudden  misgiving, 
he  let  go  her  hands  : 

cc  Ah,  mademoiselle,  it  is  long  ago,  all 
zat !  It  is  mine,  yes  ;  but  if  I  cannot 
get  it ?  Ce  nest  pas  sur,  $a  —  I  cannot 
tell  if  I  shall  have  from  all  zat  one  single 
sou  —  " 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  with  sincerity 
and  pride,  "  I  have  been  poor  all  my  life. 
You  would  have  done  this  for  me,  I  am 
sure  —  you  did  something  just  like  it 
once.  Will  you  not  let  me  give  as  I 
should  like  to  for  once  in  my  life  ?  I 
believe  you  will  pay  it  back :  if  you 


A   HOPE  DEFERRED 


can't,  are  you  too  proud  to  please  an  old 
friend  ? " 

He  took  her  hand  again  and  kissed  it. 
"  Vous  etes  tout  a  fait  grande  dame^  made 
moiselle"  he  said  simply.  "  Vous  me 
sauvez  la  vie.  I  will  go." 

After  that  the  days  were  hours  to  her, 
the  hours  minutes.  She  tasted  the  full 
sweet  of  her  renunciation,  she  rode  on 
the  top  wave  of  the  strange,  excited  joy 
that  urged  her  on  to  the  minutest  prep 
arations  for  his  comfort.  He  moved  in 
a  waking  dream,  a  confused  tremble  of 
happiness ;  he  could  not  know  her  alter 
nations  of  fierce  regret  and  quiet  resigna 
tion,  he  did  not  see  how  the  hand  shook 
that  filled  his  plate,  nor  how  the  eyes 
that  smiled  so  kindly  and  serenely  into 
his  were  red  with  crying.  Le  bon  Dieu 
had  laid  in  his  lap  the  blessing  he  was 
hungering  and  thirsting  after,  and  he 
took  it  with  the  happy  blindness  of  a 
starving  child. 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


The  days  flew  in  preparations.  He 
was  utterly  helpless  with  delight,  and 
while  she  packed  and  mended  and 
brought  out  in  a  very  luxury  of  giving 
the  little  conveniences  of  travel  that  had 
pleased  her  so  in  that  far-away  last  week, 
he  sang  his  old  French  songs,  and  kissed 
her  hand,  and  was  a  boy  again  in  the 
home  he  was  to  see  so  soon. 

Only  when  she  laid  a  certain  embroid 
ered  case  in  the  trunk,  filled  with  tiny 
pockets  whose  uses  she  had  once  so  de 
lightedly  explained  to  him,  did  her  ex 
pression  vaguely  trouble  him. 

"You  are  sad,  Mile.  Sabine !  You 
would  go?  You  change  ze  mind  — " 
But  she  smiled  at  him  and  said  that  she 
was  selfish  enough  to  want  him  to  stay, 
now  that  he  was  going  so  soon. 

But  he  would  soon  be  back;  he  would 
be  with  her  in  ten  weeks  ! 

The  last  day  was  gone,  the  last  even 
ing  ;  the  last  breakfast  lay  untouched  be 
fore  them :  she  could  do  no  more  for 


A  HOPE  DEFERRED 


him  now.  His  carnage  was  at  the  door; 
then  would  come  the  train,  then  the 
noisy  seaport  city,  then  the  wonderful 
great  boat  —  he  would  be  half  the  world 
away.  Their  hearts  were  too  full  for 
speech.  This  old  Frenchman  with  his 
jaunty  air,  his  shining  boots,  his  mended 
gloves,  this  quiet,  middle-aged  woman 
with  the  pale,  lined  face,  were  not  ro 
mantic  to  look  upon;  but  one  was  strug 
gling  with  a  passionate  gratitude  that 
choked  him,  and  the  other  was  sending 
away  from  her  —  perhaps  forever  —  the 
love  and  youth  and  brightness  of  her 
life. 

The  driver  called;  they  loosed  hands. 
He  walked  silently  down  the  steps,  but 
with  an  inarticulate  cry  she  summoned 
him  back.  She  put  her  arms  around 
him,  as  about  a  child  she  would  send 
away  to  school,  and  laid  her  cheek  softly 
against  his.  He  caught  in  her  eyes  what 
sent  his  hand  to  his  heart. 

"  Mile.  Sabine  !     What  is  it  you  have 

[174] 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


done  ?  You  would  go  —  mon  Dieu,  you 
have  lied  to  me  !  " 

With  one  last  effort  she  smiled  away 
his  sudden  fear. 

"  Why,  no  ! "  she  said  through  her 
tears.  "  Why,  no,  monsieur !  I  only 
miss  my  friend  !  Good-by  !  "  And 

then,  to   please  him,  "  Bon  voyage,  mon 

•  §  ft 

ami  I 

When  the  carriage  was  out  of  sight  she 
went  in  and  cried  by  the  old  pianoforte  — 
but  not  all  for  sorrow. 

"He  may  come  !  He  may  come  !  " 
she  sobbed  over  the  yellow  keys,  and  the 
old  sounding-board  thrilled  softly  and 
called  back  to  her  with  a  jangling  minor 
cadence. 

Her  sobbing  quieted  to  a  sigh ;  be 
neath  her  tears  her  cheeks  burned  with  a 
soft  hot  flush.  "  Maybe  he  will !  May 
be  he  will !  "  she  whispered,  and  "  I  know 
he  will  if  he  can ! "  while  her  hands 
clasped  each  other  tightly,  with  ringers 
intertwisted  like  a  girl's.  She  sat  there 


A    HOPE   DEFERRED 


in  the  morning  sunlight  that  turned  her 
hair  to  yellow,  lost  in  strange,  vague 
dreams  ;  a  shy  happiness  curved  her  lips 
even  while  the  new  haunting  pain  that 
tugged  at  her  heart  brought  a  tiny 
wrinkle  between  her  slender  eyebrows. 
She  went  about  her  simple  household 
duties  half  unconsciously.  The  old  ser 
vant  watched  her  curiously.  She  could 
not  understand  why  her  mistress  should 
wipe  her  eyes,  if  later  she  could  sing  till 
the  dim  parlor  thrilled  to  the  sweet  old 
tunes.  Nor  did  Miss  Sabina  herself 
quite  certainly  know.  She  was  of  a  sim 
ple,  modest  generation  that  analyzed  lit 
tle:  the  rose  of  her  life  she  could  shut 
away  forever,  hidden  in  some  precious 
yellowed  book,  but  she  could  not  tear 
apart  the  leaves,  even  to  know  it  better. 
To  Miss  Ellsworth,  who  came  in 
later,  hurried  and  amazed,  she  was  inex 
plicable.  She  had  travelled  much,  this 
successful,  ordinary  woman,  and  she  was 
well  educated,  as  women  count  such  mat 
ters  to-day  ;  but  this  quiet  spinster,  sit- 


A   HOPE   DEFERRED 


ting  out  of  the  strong  currents  of  life, 
alone  in  her  quaint,  old-time  parlor  with 
its  rose-leaves  and  mahogany  of  another 
day,  had  somehow  left  her  behind  with 
all  her  experiences  and  acquisitions,  and 
bade  her  good-by  with  a  manner  that 
obliterated  forever  from  her  friend's  mind 
the  image  of  deprecating  gentleness  she 
had  so  long  patronized. 

For  she  had  travelled  the  great  way  of 
all,  had  Miss  Sabina,  and  the  pride  and 
happiness  of  her  waiting  heart  had  come 
to  her  in  the  steepest  places  of  that  won 
derful  road.  The  teacher  of  women 
since  the  beginning  had  spared  no  pains 
with  this  simple,  eager  soul,  and  she 
grew  at  once  young  and  wise  under  the 
dear  and  unrelenting  discipline. 

"  He  will  —  he  will  if  he  can  !  "  she 
whispered,  as  she  waited  for  him  on  the 
porch,  while  the  children  played  in  the 
distance  with  faint,  cheerful  cries,  and  the 
roses  grew  strong  toward  dusk.  And 
even  to  herself  her  tears  seemed  not 
wholly  sad. 

[177] 


THE   COURTING   OF 
LADY  JANE 


THE    COURTING    OF 
LADY   JANE 


THE  colonel  entered  his  sister's 
room  abruptly,  sat  down  on  her 
bed,  and  scattered  a  drawerful  of  fluffy 
things  laid  out  for  packing. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  about  my 
side  of  the  matter,"  he  said  gloomily. 
"What  am  I  to  do  here  all  alone,  for 
Heaven's  sake  ?  " 

"  That  is  so  like  a  man,"  she  mur 
mured,  one  arm  in  a  trunk.  "  Let  me 
see :  party-boots,  the  children's  arctics, 
Dick's  sweater  —  did  you  think  I  could 
live  here  forever,  Cal  ?  " 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  have  come  at 
[181] 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

all.  Just  as  I  get  thoroughly  settled 
down  to  flowers  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  rabbits  in  a  chafing-dish,  and  people 
for  dinner,  you  skip  off.  Why  don't 
you  bring  the  children  here  ?  What  did 
you  marry  into  the  navy  for,  anyway  ? 
Nagasaki !  I  wouldn't  live  in  a  place 
called  Nagasaki  for  all  that  money  could 
buy!" 

"  You're  cross,"  said  Mrs.  Dick  plac 
idly.  "Please  get  off  that  bath-wrapper. 
If  you  don't  like  to  live  alone —  Six 
bath-towels,  Dick's  shoe-bag,  my  old 
muff  (I  hope  and  pray  I'll  remember 
that!)  Helen's  reefer —  Why  don't  you 
marry  ?  " 

"  Marry  ?  Marry  !  Are  you  out  of 
your  mind,  Dosia  ?  I  marry  !  " 

The  colonel  twisted  his  grayish  mus 
tache  into  points ;  a  look  of  horror 
spread  over  his  countenance. 

"  Men  have  done  it,"  she  replied  seri 
ously,  "  and  lived.  Look  at  Dick." 

"  Look    at    him  ?     But    how  ?     Who 


THE   COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

ever  sees  him  ?  I've  ceased  to  believe 
in  him,  personally.  I  can't  look  across 
the  Pacific.  Consider  my  age,  Dosia ; 
consider  my  pepper-and-salt  hair ;  con 
sider  my  bronchitis  ;  consider  —  " 

"  Consider  your  stupidity !  As  to 
your  hair,  I  should  hate  to  eat  a  salad 
dressed  with  that  proportion  of  pepper. 
As  to  your  age,  remember  you're  only 
ten  years  ahead  of  me,  and  I  expect  to 
remain  thirty-eight  for  some  time." 

"  But  forty-eight  is  centenarian  to  a 
girl  of  twenty-two,  Dosia." 

The  colonel  was  plaiting  and  un- 
plaiting  the  ball-fringe  of  the  bed-slip ; 
his  eyes  followed  the  motion  of  his  fin 
gers  —  he  did  not  see  his  sister's  trium 
phant  smile  as  she  dived  again  into  the 
trunk. 

"  That  depends  entirely  on  the  girl. 
Take  Louise  Morris,  for  instance ;  she 
regards  you  as  partly  entombed,  proba 
bly  "  — the  colonel  winced  involuntarily 
— "  but,  on  the  other  hand,  a  girl  like 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

Jane  Leroy  would  have  no  such  non 
sense  in  her  head,  and  she  can't  be  much 
more  than  twenty." 

"  She  is  twenty-two,"  cried  the  unsus 
pecting  colonel  eagerly. 

"  Ah  ?  I  should  not  have  said  so 
much.  Now  such  a  girl  as  that,  Cal, 
handsome,  dignified,  college-bred,  is  just 
the  wife  for  an  older  man.  One  can't 
seem  to  see  her  marrying  some  young 
snip  of  her  own  age.  She'd  be  wasted 
on  him.  I  happen  to  know  that  she 
refused  Wilbur  Vail  entirely  on  that 
ground.  She  admitted  that  he  was  a 
charming  fellow,  but  she  told  her  mother 
he  was  far  too  young  for  her.  And  he 
was  twenty-eight." 

"Did  she?"  The  colonel  left  the 
fringe.  "  But  —  but  perhaps  there  were 
other  reasons  ;  perhaps  she  didn't  —  " 

"  Oh,  probably  she  didn't.  But  still, 
she  said  he  was  too  young.  That's  the 
way  with  these  serious  girls.  Now  I 
thought  Dick  was  middle-aged  when  I 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

married  him,  and  he  was  thirty.  Jane 
doesn't  take  after  her  mother;  she  was 
only  nineteen  when  she  was  born  —  I 
mean,  of  course,  when  Jane  was  born. 
Will  you  hand  me  that  crocheted  shawl, 
please  ? " 

"  My  dear  girl,  you're  not  going  to 
try  to  get  that  into  that  trunk,  too  ? 
Something  will  break." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  Clarence.  Thank 
you.  Will  you  send  Norah  up  to  me 
as  you  go  down  ?  " 

It  had  not  occurred  to  the  colonel  that 
he  was  going  down,  but  he  decided  that 
he  must  have  been,  and  departed,  forget 
ting  Norah  utterly  before  he  had  accom 
plished  half  of  the  staircase. 

He  wandered  out  through  the  broad 
hall,  reaching  down  a  hat  absently,  and 
across  the  piazza.  Then,  half  uncon 
scious  of  direction,  he  crossed  the  neat 
suburban  road  and  strolled  up  the  gravel 
path  of  the  cottage  opposite.  Mrs.  Le- 
roy  was  sitting  in  the  bay-window,  at- 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

taching  indefinite  yards  of  white  lace  to 
indefinite  yards  of  white  ruffles.  Jane, 
in  cool  violet  lawn,  was  reading  aloud 
to  her.  Both  looked  up  at  his  light 
knock  at  the  side  door. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  interrupt/'  he  sug 
gested  politely,  as  he  dropped  into  a  low 
chair  with  a  manner  that  betokened  the 
assurance  of  a  warm  welcome. 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,'*  Mrs. 
Leroy  smiled  whimsically. 

"  Lady  is  reading  Pater  to  me  for  the 
good  of  my  soul,  and  I  am  listening 
politely  for  the  good  of  her  manners," 
she  answered.  "  But  it  is  a  little  wear 
ing  for  us  both,  for  she  knows  I  don't 
understand  it,  and  I  know  she  thinks  me 
a  little  dishonest  for  pretending  to." 

"  Mother ! " 

The  girl's  gray  eyes  opened  wide  above 
her  cool,  creamy  cheeks  ;  the  deep  dim 
ples  that  made  her  mother's  face  so 
girlish  actually  added  a  regularity  and 
seriousness  to  the  daughter's  soft  chin. 
Her  chestnut  hair  was  thick  and  straight, 

[186] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY   JANE 

the  little  half-curls  of  the  same  rich  tint 
that  fell  over  her  mother's  forehead 
brushed  wavelessly  back  on  each  side  of 
a  deep  widow's  peak. 

The  two  older  ones  laughed. 

"  Always  uncompromising.  Lady  Jane ! " 
the  colonel  cried. 

"  I  assure  you,  colonel,  when  Lady  be 
gins  to  mark  iniquities,  few  of  us  stand!" 

Jane  smiled  gravely,  as  on  two  children. 
"  You  know  very  well  that  is  nonsense," 
she  said. 

Black  Hannah  appeared  in  the  door, 
beaming  and  curtsying  to  the  colonel. 

"  You-all  ready  foh  yoh  tea,  Miss 
Lady  ?  "  she  inquired. 

A  sudden  recollection  threw  Mrs. 
Leroy  into  one  of  her  irresistible  fits 
of  gentle  laughter. 

"  Oh,  Lady,"  she  murmured,  "  do 
you  remember  that  impossible  creature 
that  lectured  me  about  Hannah's  asking 
you  for  orders  ?  Did  I  tell  you  about 
it,  colonel  ?  " 

Jane  shook  her  head  reprovingly. 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

"  Now,  mother  dearest,  you  always 
make  him  out  worse  —  " 

"  Worse,  my  darling  ?  Worse  is  a 
word  that  couldn't  be  applied  to  that 
man.  Worse  is  comparative.  Positive 
he  certainly  was,  superlative  is  mild,  but 
comparative  —  never  !  " 

"  Tell  about  it,  do,"  begged  the  guest. 

"  Well,  he  came  to  see  how  Lady  was 
growing  up — he's  a  sort  of  species  of 
relative  —  and  he  sat  in  your  chair, 
colonel,  and  talked  the  most  amazing 
Fourth  Reader  platitudes  in  a  deep  bass 
voice.  And  when  Hannah  asked  Lady 
what  her  orders  were  for  the  grocer,  he 
gave  me  a  terrible  look  and  rumbled  out: 
c  I  am  grieved  to  see,  Cousin  Alice,  that 
Jennie  has  burst  her  bounds  ! ' 

"It  sounded  horribly  indecorous  —  I 
expected  to  see  her  in  fragments  on  the 
floor  —  and  I  fairly  gasped." 

"  Gasped,  mother  ?  You  laughed  in 
his  face  !  " 

"  Did    I,    dearest  ?       It    is    possible," 

[188] 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

Mrs.  Leroy  admitted.  "And  when  I 
looked  vague  he  explained,  c  I  mean  that 
you  seem  to  have  relinquished  the  reins 
very  early.  Cousin  Alice  !  * 

"'Relinquished?  Relinquished?*  said 
I .  c  Why,  dear  me,  Mr.  Wadham,  I  never 
held  'em  ! '  " 

"  He  only  meant,  mother  dear,  that — " 

"  Bless  you,  my  child,  I  know  what  he 
only  meant !  He  explained  it  to  me 
very  fully.  He  meant  that  when  a 
widow  is  left  with  a  ten-year-old  child, 
she  should  apply  to  distant  cousins  to 
manage  her  and  her  funds." 

"  Disgusting  beast !  "  the  colonel  ex 
claimed  with  feeling,  possessing  himself 
of  one  of  Hannah's  beaten  biscuits,  and 
smiling  as  Lady  Jane's  white  fingers 
dropped  just  the  right  number  of  lumps 
in  his  tea. 

How  charming  she  was,  how  dignified, 
how  tender  to  her  merry  little  mother, 
this  grave,  handsome  girl !  He  saw  her, 
in  fancy,  opposite  him  at  his  table,  mov- 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

ing  so  stately  about  his  big  empty  house, 
filling  it  with  pretty,  useless  woman's 
things,  lighting  every  corner  with  that 
last  touch  of  grace  that  the  most  faithful 
housekeeper  could  never  hope  to  add  to 
his  lonely  life.  For  Theodosia  had 
taught  him  that  he  was  lonely.  He 
envied  Dick  this  sister  of  his. 

He  wondered  that  marriage  had  never 
occurred  to  him  before :  simply  it  had 
not.  Ever  since  that  rainy  day  in  April, 
twenty  years  ago,  when  they  had  buried 
the  slender,  soft-eyed  little  creature  with 
his  twisted  silver  ring  on  her  cold  ringer, 
he  had  shut  that  door  of  life  ;  and  though 
it  had  been  many  years  since  the  little 
ring  had  really  bound  him  to  a  person 
ality  long  faded  from  his  mind,  he  had 
never  thought  to  open  the  door — he  had 
forgotten  it  was  there. 

He  was  not  a  talkative  man,  and,  like 

many  such,  he  dearly  loved  to  be  amused 

and  entertained   by  others  who  were  in 

any  degree  attractive  to  him.     The  pic- 

[190] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

ture  of  these  two  dear  women  adding 
their  wit  and  charm  and  dainty  way  of 
living  to  his  days  grew  suddenly  very 
vivid  to  him  ;  he  realized  that  it  was  an 
unconscious  counting  on  their  continued 
interest  and  hospitality  that  had  made 
the  future  so  comfortable  for  so  long. 

With  characteristic  directness  he  began : 

"Will  your  Ladyship  allow  me  a 
half-hour  of  business  with  the  queen- 
mother  ? " 

She  rose  easily  and  stepped  out 
through  the  long  window  to  the  little 
side  porch,  then  to  the  lawn.  They 
watched  her  as  she  paced  slowly  away 
from  them,  a  tall  violet  figure  vivid 
against  all  the  green. 

"  She  is  a  dear  girl,  isn't  she  ?  "  said 
her  mother  softly. 

A  sudden  flood  of  delighted  pride 
surged  through  the  colonel's  heart.  If 
only  he  might  keep  them  happy  and 
contented  and  —  and  his!  He  never 
thought  of  them  apart :  no  rose  and  bud 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

on  one  stem   were   more   essentially  to 
gether  than  they. 

"  She  is  too  dear  for  one  to  be  satisfied 
forever  with  even  our  charming  neigh- 
borliness,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  How 
long  have  we  lived  ( across  the  street 
from  each  other,'  as  they  say  here,  Mrs. 
Leroy  ? " 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her 
white  ruffles. 

"  It  is  just  a  year  this  month,"  she 
said. 

cc  We  are  such  good  friends,"  he  con 
tinued  in  his  gentle,  reserved  voice, 
"  that  I  hesitate  to  break  into  such  pleas 
ant  relations,  even  with  the  chance  of 
making  us  all  happier,  perhaps.  But  I 
cannot  resist  the  temptation.  Could  we 
not  make  one  family,  we  three  ? " 

A  quick,  warm  color  flooded  her 
cheeks  and  forehead.  She  caught  her 
breath ;  her  startled  eyes  met  his  with  a 
lightning-swift  flash  of  something  that 
moved  him  strangely. 

[192] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Colonel  Dris- 
coll  ? "  she  asked,  low  and  quickly. 

"  I  mean,  could  you  give  me  your 
daughter  —  if  she  —  at  any  time  —  could 
think  it  possible  ?  " 

She  drew  a  deep  breath ;  the  color 
seemed  blown  from  her  transparent  skin 
like  a  flame  from  a  lamp.  For  a  mo 
ment  her  head  seemed  to  droop ;  then 
she  sat  straight  and  moistened  her  lips, 
her  eyes  fixed  level  ahead. 

"  Lady  ?  "  she  whispered,  and  he  was 
sure  that  she  thought  the  word  was 
spoken  in  her  ordinary  tone.  cc  Lady  ?  " 

"  I  know  —  I  realize  perfectly  that  it 
is  a  presumption  in  me  —  at  my  age  — 
when  I  think  of  what  she  deserves.  Oh, 
we  won't  speak  of  it  again  if  you  feel 
that  it  would  be  wrong  !  " 

"  No,  no,  it  is  not  that/'  she  mur 
mured.  "I  —  I  have  always  known  that 
I  must  lose  her;  but  she  —  one  is  so 
selfish  —  she  is  all  I  have,  you  know  !" 

"  But  you  would  not  lose  her !  "  he 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

cried  eagerly.  "  You  would  only  share 
her  with  me,  dear  Mrs.  Leroy  !  Do  you 
think  —  could  she  —  it  is  possible  ?  " 

"  Lady  is  an  unusual  girl/'  she  said 
evenly,  but  with  something  gone  out  of 
her  warm,  gay  voice.  "  She  has  never 
cared  for  young  people.  I  know  that 
she  admires  you  greatly.  While  I  can 
not  deny  that  I  should  prefer  less  differ 
ence  than  lies  between  your  ages,  it 
would  be  folly  in  me  to  fail  to  recognize 
the  desirability  of  the  connection  in  every 
other  way.  Whatever  her  decision  —  and 
the  matter  rests  entirely  with  her  —  my 
daughter  and  I  are  honored  by  your  pro 
posal,  Colonel  Driscoll." 

She  might  have  been  reading  a  care 
fully  prepared  address :  her  eyes  never 
wavered  from  the  wall  in  front  — it  was 
as  if  she  saw  her  words  there. 

"  Then  —  then  will  you  ask  her  ?  " 

She  stared  at  him  now. 

"  You  mean  that  you  wish  me  to  ask 
her  to  marry  you  ?  " 

[>94] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply.  "She  will 
feel  freer  in  that  way.  You  will  know  as 
I  should  not,  directly,  if  there  is  any 
chance.  I  can  talk  about  it  with  you 
more  easily  —  somehow." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a 
strange  air  of  exhaustion ;  it  was  the 
yielding  of  one  too  tired  to  argue. 

"  Very  well,'*  she  breathed,  "  go  now, 
and  I  will  ask  her.  Come  this  evening. 
You  will  excuse  —  " 

She  made  a  vague  motion.  The  colo 
nel  pitied  her  tremendously  in  a  blind 
way.  Was  it  all  this  to  lose  a  daughter? 
How  she  loved  her  ! 

"  Perhaps  to-morrow  morning,"  he 
suggested,  but  she  shook  her  head  vehe 
mently. 

"  No,  to-night,  to-night !  "  she  cried. 
"  Lady  will  know  directly.  Come  to 
night  !  " 

He  went  out  a  little  depressed.  Al 
ready  a  tiny  cloud  hung  between  them. 
Suppose  their  pleasant  waters  had  been 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

troubled  for  worse  than  nothing  ?  Sud 
denly  his  case  appeared  hopeless  to  him. 
What  folly  —  a  man  of  his  years,  and 
that  fresh  young  creature  with  all  her 
life  before  her !  He  wondered  that  he 
could  have  dreamed  of  it ;  he  wished  the 
evening  over  and  the  foolish  mistake 
forgiven. 

His  sister  was  full  of  plans  and  dates, 
and  her  talk  covered  his  almost  absolute 
silence.  After  dinner  she  retired  again 
into  packing,  and  he  strocfe  through  the 
dusk  to  the  cottage ;  his  had  not  been  a 
training  that  seeks  to  delay  the  inevitable. 

The  two  women  sat,  as  usual  at  this 
hour,  on  the  porch.  Their  white  gowns 
shimmered  against  the  dark  honeysuckle- 
vine.  He  halted  at  the  steps  and  took 
off  the  old  fatigue-cap  he  sometimes  wore, 
standing  straight  and  tall  before  them. 

Mrs.  Leroy  leaned  back  in  her  chair ; 
the  faintest  possible  gesture  indicated  her 
daughter,  who  had  risen  and  stood  beside 
her. 

[196] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

"  Colonel  Driscoll,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
uneven  voice,  "my  daughter  wishes  me 
to  say  to  you  that  she  appreciates  deeply 
the  honor  you  do  her,  and  that  if  you 
wish  it  she  will  be  your  wife.  She  —  she 
is  sure  she  will  be  happy." 

The  colonel  felt  his  heart  leap  up  and 
hit  heavily  against  his  chest.  Was  it 
possible  ?  A  great  gratitude  and  pride 
glowed  softly  through  him.  He  walked 
nearly  up  the  steps  and  stood  just  below 
her,  lifting  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  My  dear,  dear  child,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  you  give  me  too  much,  but  you  must 
not  measure  my  thankfulness  for  the  gift 
by  my  deserts.  Whatever  a  man  can  do 
to  make  you  and  your  mother  happy 
shall  be  done  so  long  as  I  live." 

She  smiled  gravely  into  his  eyes  and 
bowed  her  head  slightly ;  like  all  her 
little  motions,  it  had  the  effect  of  a  grace 
ful  ceremony.  Then,  slipping  loose  her 
hand,  she  seated  herself  on  a  low  stool 
beside  her  mother's  chair,  leaning  against 

[197] 


THE  .COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

her  knee.  Her  sweet  silence  charmed 
him. 

He  took  his  accustomed  seat,  and  they 
sat  quietly,  while  the  breeze  puffed  little 
gusts  of  honeysuckle  across  their  faces. 
Occasional  neighbors  greeted  them,  stroll 
ing  past ;  the  newly  watered  lawns  all 
along  the  street  sent  up  a  fresh  turfy 
odor ;  now  and  then  a  bird  chirped 
drowsily.  He  felt  deliciously  intimate, 
peacefully  at  home.  A  fine,  subtle  sense 
of  bien-etre  penetrated  his  whole  soul. 

When  he  rose  to  go  they  had  hardly 
exchanged  a  dozen  words.  As  he  held 
her  hand  closely,  half  doubting  his  right, 
she  raised  her  face  to  him  simply,  and  he 
kissed  her  white  forehead.  When  he 
bent  over  her  mother's  hand  it  was  as 
cold  as  stone. 

Through  the  long  pleasant  weeks  of 
the  summer  they  talked  and  laughed  and 
drove  and  sailed  together,  a  happy  trio. 
Mrs.  Leroy's  listless  quiet  of  the  first 
few  days  gave  way  to  a  brilliant,  fitful 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

gayety  that  enchanted  the  more  silent  two, 
and  the  few  hours  when  she  was  not  with 
them  seemed  incomplete.  On  his  men 
tioning  this  to  her  one  afternoon  she  shot 
him  a  strange  glance. 

"  But  this  is  all  wrong,"  she  said 
abruptly.  "  What  will  you  do  when  I  am 
gone  in  the  winter  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Gone  where,  when,  how  ?  " 

"  My  dear  colonel,"  she  said  lightly, 
but  with  an  obvious  effort,  "  do  you  im 
agine  that  I  cannot  leave  you  a  honey 
moon,  in  spite  of  my  doting  parenthood  ? 
I  plan  to  spend  the  latter  part  of  the 
winter  in  New  York  with  friends.  Per 
haps  by  spring  —  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Leroy,  how  absurd  ! 
How  cruel  of  you !  What  will  Lady 
do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  She  has  never 
been  separated  from  you  in  her  life. 
Does  she  know  of  this  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  shall  tell  her  soon.  As  for 
what  she  will  do  —  she  will  have  her  hus- 

[199] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

band.     If  that  is  not  enough  for  her,  she 
should  not  marry  the  man  who  cannot — " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  controlled 
with  great  effort  a  rising  emotion  almost 
too  strong  for  her.  Again  a  deep,  inex 
plicable  sympathy  welled  up  in  him.  He 
longed  to  comfort  her,  to  give  her  every 
thing  she  wanted.  He  blamed  himself 
and  Jane  for  all  the  trouble  they  were 
causing  her. 

That  afternoon  she  kept  in  her  room, 
and  he  and  his  fiancee  drank  their  tea 
together  alone.  He  was  worried  by  the 
news  of  the  morning,  dissatisfied  out  of 
all  proportion,  vexed  that  so  sensible 
and  natural  a  proposition  should  leave 
him  so  uneasy  and  disappointed.  He 
had  meant  the  smooth,  quiet  life  to 
go  on  without  a  break,  and  now  the 
new  relation  must  change  everything. 

He   glanced  at  Jane,  a  little  irritated 

that  she  should   not  perceive  his  mood 

and   exorcise  it.      But  she  had  not  her 

mother's  marvellous  susceptibility.     She 

[200] 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

drank  her  tea  in  serene  silence.  He 
made  a  few  haphazard  remarks,  hoping 
to  lose  in  conversation  the  cloud  that 
threatened  his  evening ;  but  she  only  as 
sented  tranquilly  and  watched  the  chang 
ing  colors  of  the  early  sunset. 

"  Have  you  made  a  vow  to  agree  with 
everything  I  say  ? "  he  asked  finally, 
half  laughing,  half  in  earnest. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  replied  placidly, 
"  but  you  surely  do  not  want  an  argu 
ment?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered  her,  vexed  at 
himself. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mrs. 's 

novel  ? "  he  suggested,  as  the  pages, 
fluttering  in  the  rising  breeze,  caught  his 
attention. 

"  Mother  is  reading  it,  not  I,"  she  re 
turned  indifferently.  "  I  don't  care  very 
much  for  the  new  novels." 

Involuntarily  he  turned  as  if  to  catch 
her  mother's  criticism  of  the  book  :  light, 
perhaps,  but  witty,  and  with  a  little  tang 
[201] 


THE   COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

of  harmless  satire  that  always  took  his 
fancy.  But  she  was  not  there.  He 
sighed  impatiently ;  was  it  possible  he 
was  a  little  bored  ? 

A  quick  step  sounded  on  the  gravel 
walk,  a  swish  of  skirts. 

"  It  is  Louise  Morris/'  she  said,  "  I'll 
meet  her  at  the  gate.'* 

After  a  short  conference  she  returned. 

cc  Will  you  excuse  me,  please  ?  "  she 
said,  quite  eagerly  for  her.  "  Mother 
will  be  down  soon,  anyway,  I  am  sure. 
Louise's  brother  is  back ;  he  has  been 
away  in  the  West  for  six  years.  Mother 
will  be  delighted  —  she  was  always  so 
fond  of  Jack.  Louise  is  making  a  little 
surprise  for  him.  He  must  be  quite 
grown  up  now.  I'll  go  and  tell  mother." 

A  moment  later  and  she  was  gone. 
Mrs.  Leroy  took  her  place  in  the  win 
dow,  and  imperceptibly  under  her  gentle 
influence  the  cloud  faded  from  his  hori 
zon  ;  he  forgot  the  doubt  of  an  hour  ago. 
At  her  suggestion  he  dined  there,  and 

[  202  ] 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

found  himself,  as  always  when  with  his 
hostess,  at  his  best.  He  felt  that  there 
was  no  hypocrisy  in  her  interest  in  his 
ideas,  and  the  ease  with  which  he  ex 
pressed  them  astonished  him  even  while 
he  delighted  in  it.  Why  could  he  not 
talk  so  with  Jane  ?  It  occurred  to  him 
suddenly  that  it  was  because  Jane  her 
self  talked  rarely.  She  was,  like  him,  a 
listener,  for  the  most  part.  His  mind, 
unusually  alert  and  sensitive  to-night, 
looked  ahead  to  the  happy  winter  even 
ings  he  had  grown  to  count  on  so,  and 
when,  with  an  effort,  he  detached  this 
third  figure  from  the  group  to  be  so 
closely  allied  after  Christmas-tide  —  the 
date  fixed  for  the  wedding  —  he  per 
ceived  that  there  was  a  great  gap  in  the 
picture,  that  the  warmth  and  sparkle  had 
suddenly  gone.  All  the  tenderness  in 
the  world  could  not  disguise  that  flash  of 
foresight. 

He  grew  quiet,  lost  in  revery.     She, 
following  his  mood,  spoke  less  and  less  ; 
[203] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

and  when  Jane  returned,  late  at  night, 
escorted  by  a  tall,  bronzed  young  ranch 
man,  she  found  them  sitting  in  silence  in 
a  half-light,  staring  into  the  late  Septem 
ber  fire  on  the  hearth. 

In  the  month  that  followed  an  imper 
ceptible  change  crept  over  the  three. 
The  older  woman  was  much  alone  —  vari 
able  as  an  April  day,  now  merry  and 
caressing,  now  sombre  and  withdrawn. 
The  girl  clung  to  her  mother  more 
closely,  sat  for  long  minutes  holding  her 
hand,  threw  strange  glances  at  her  be 
trothed  that  would  have  startled  him,  so 
different  were  they  from  her  old,  steady 
regard,  had  not  his  now  troubled  sense 
of  some  impalpable  mist  that  wrapped 
them  all  grown  stronger  every  day.  He 
avoided  sitting  alone  with  her,  wondering 
sometimes  at  the  ease  with  which  such 
tete-a-tetes  were  dispensed  with.  Then, 
struck  with  apprehension  at  his  seeming 
neglect,  he  spent  his  ingenuity  in  delicate 
attentions  toward  her,  courtly  thought- 
[204] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

fulness  of  her  tastes,  beautiful  gifts  that 
provoked  from  her,  in  turn,  all  the  little 
intimacies  and  tender  friendliness  of  their 
earlier  intercourse. 

At  one  of  these  tiny  crises  of  mutual 
restoration,  she,  sitting  alone  with  him 
in  the  drawing-room,  suddenly  raised  her 
eyes  and  looked  steadily  at  him. 

"  You  care  for  me,  then,  very  much  ?  " 
she  said  earnestly.  "  You  —  you  would 
miss  —  if  things  were  different  ?  You 
really  count  on  —  on  —  our  marriage  ? 
Are  you  happy  ?  " 

A  great  remorse  rose  in  him.  Poor 
child  —  poor,  young,  unknowing  creature, 
that,  after  all,  was  only  twenty-two  !  She 
felt  it,  then,  the  strange  mist  that  seemed 
to  muffle  his  words  and  actions,  to  hold 
him  back.  And  she  had  given  him  so 
much  ! 

He  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  to 
him. 

"  My  dear,  dear  child,"  he  said  gently, 
"  forgive  a  selfish  middle-aged  bachelor 

[205] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

if  he  cannot  come  up  to  the  precious 
ideals  of  the  sweetest  girlhood  in  the 
world  !  I  am  no  more  worthy  of  you, 
Lady  dear,  than  I  have  ever  been,  but  I 
have  never  felt  more  tender  toward  you, 
more  sensible  of  all  you  are  giving  me. 
I  cannot  pretend  to  the  wild  love  of  the 
poets  you  read  so  much ;  that  time,  if  it 
ever  was,  is  past  for  me.  I  am  a  plain, 
unromantic  person,  who  takes  and  leaves 
a  great  deal  for  granted  —  I  thought  you 
knew  that.  But  you  must  never  doubt  —  " 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  interrupted  him  nervously. 

"I  never  will  —  Clarence,"  she  said 
almost  solemnly ;  and  it  struck  him  for 
the  first  time  that  she  had  never  called 
him  by  his  name  before.  He  leaned 
over  her,  and  as  in  one  of  her  rare  con 
cessions  she  lifted  her  face  up  to  him,  he 
bent  lower  than  her  forehead ;  what  com 
pelled  him  to  kiss  her  soft  cheek  rather 
than  her  lips  he  did  not  know. 

Unexpected  business  summoned  him 

[206] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

to  New  York  for  a  fortnight  the  next 
day,  and  the  great  city  drew  him  irresist 
ibly  into  its  noisy  maelstrom.  The  cur 
rent  of  his  thoughts  changed  absolutely. 
Old  friends  and  new  took  up  his  leisure. 
His  affairs,  as  they  grew  more  pressing, 
woke  in  him  a  keen  delight  in  the  strug 
gle  with  his  opponents ;  as  he  shook 
hands  triumphantly  with  his  lawyer  after 
a  well-earned  victory  he  felt  years  younger. 
He  decided  that  he  had  moped  too  long 
in  the  country :  "  We  must  move  into 
town  this  season,"  he  said  to  himself. 

He  fairly  ran  up  the  cottage  steps  in 
the  gathering  dusk.  He  longed  to  see 
them,  full  of  plans  for  the  winter.  Han 
nah  met  him  at  the  door :  the  ladies  had 
gone  to  a  dance  at  the  Morrises' ;  there 
had  been  an  invitation  for  him,  so  he 
would  not  intrude  if  he  followed. 

Hastily  changing  his  clothes,  he  walked 

up  the  street.      Lights  and  music  poured 

out  of  the .  open  windows  of  the  large 

house ;  the  full  moon  made  the  grounds 

[207] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

about  it  almost  as  bright  as  the  rooms. 
He  stepped  up  on  the  piazza  and  looked 
in  at  the  swaying  couples.  Lady  Jane, 
beautiful  in  pale  blue  mull,  drifted  by  in 
her  young  host's  arms.  She  was  flushed 
with  dancing ;  her  hair  had  escaped  from 
its  usual  calm.  He  hardly  recognized 
her.  As  he  looked  out  toward  the  old 
garden,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  flowing 
white  gown,  a  lace  scarf  thrown  over  a 
head  whose  fine  poise  he  could  not  mis 
take. 

A  young  man  passed  him  with  a  filmy 
crepe  shawl  he  knew  well.  The  colonel 
stepped  along  with  him. 

"You  are  taking  this  to  Mrs.  Leroy ? " 

"Yes,  colonel,  she  feels  the  air  a  little." 

"  Let  me  relieve  you   of  it,"  and  he 

walked  alone   into  the  garden  with   the 

softly  scented  cobweb  over  his  arm. 

She  was  standing  in  an  old  neglected 
summer-house,  her  back  to  the  door. 
As  he  stopped  behind  her  and  laid  the 
soft  wrap  over  her  firm  white  shoulders, 

[208] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

she  turned  her  head  with  a  startled  pre 
science  of  his  personality,  and  met  his 
eyes  full.  He  looked  straight  into  those 
soft  gray  depths,  and  as  he  looked, 
searching  for  something  there,  he  knew 
not  what,  troubled  strangely  by  her 
nearness  and  the  helpless  surrender  of 
her  fastened  gaze,  a  great  light  burst 
upon  him. 

"  It  is  you  !  it  is  you  !  "  he  said 
hoarsely,  and  crushing  her  in  his  arms,  he 
kissed  her  heavily  on  her  yielding  mouth. 

For  a  moment  she  rested  against  him. 
The  music,  piercingly  sweet,  drove  away 
thought.  Then  she  drew  herself  back, 
pushing  him  blindly  from  her. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  she  gasped,  "  it  is 
Lady  !  You  are  mad  —  " 

"  Mad  ?  "  he  said  quickly.  "  I  was 
never  sane  till  now.  When  I  think  of 
what  I  had  to  offer  that  dear  child,  when 
I  realize  to  what  a  farce  of  love  I  was 
sacrificing  her  —  oh,  Alice  dearest,  you 
are  a  woman;  you  must  have  known!" 
[209] 


THE   COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

She  raised  her  head ;  an  unquenchable 
triumph  smiled  at  him. 

"  I  did  know !  "  she  cried  exultantly. 
Suddenly  her  whole  expression  changed, 
her  head  sank  again. 

"  Oh,  Lady,  my  child,  my  baby  !  " 
she  moaned,  all  mother  now,  and  broken 
hearted. 

"  You  must  never  tell  her,  never  ! " 
she  panted.  "You  will  forget;  you  —  I 
will  go  away  —  " 

"  It  is  you  who  are  mad,  Alice/'  he 
said  sternly.  "  Listen  to  me.  For  all 
these  weeks  it  has  been  your  voice  I 
have  remembered,  your  face  I  have  seen 
in  imagination  in  my  house.  It  is  you 
I  have  missed  from  us  three  —  never 
Lady.  It  is  you  I  have  tried  to  please 
and  hoped  to  satisfy  —  not  Lady.  Ever 
since  you  told  me  you  would  not  spend 
the  winter  with  us  I  have  been  discon 
tented.  Why,  Alice,  I  have  never  kissed 
her  in  my  life — as  I  have  kissed  you." 

She  grew  red  to  the  tips  of  her  little 
[210] 


THE  COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

ears,  and  threw  him  a  quick  glance  that 
tingled  to  his  ringers'  ends. 

"You  would  not  have  me  —  oh,  my 
dear,  it  is  not  possible  !  "  he  cried. 

She  burst  into  tears.  "  I  don't  know — 
I  don't  know  !  "  she  sobbed.  "  It  will 
break  her  heart !  I  don't  understand 
her  any  more  ;  once  I  could  tell  what 
she  would  think,  but  not  now." 

"  Hush !  some  one  is  coming,"  he 
warned  her,  and  taking  her  arm  he  drew 
her  out  through  a  great  gap  in  the  side 
of  the  little  house,  so  that  they  stood 
hidden  by  it. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  him  to  his  face  what 
I  think  of  him  !  "  said  a  young  man's 
voice,  angry,  determined,  but  shaking 
with  disappointment.  "  To  hold  a 
girl  —  " 

"  He  does  not  hold  me —  I  hold  my 
self  ! "  It  was  Lady's  voice,  low  and  trem 
bling.  "  It  is  all  my  fault,  Jack.  I 
bound  myself  before  I  knew  what — what 
a  different  thing  it  really  was.  I  do  love 
[211] 


THE   COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

him  —  I  love  him  dearly,  but  not — not — 
No,  no;  I  don't  mean  what  you  think  — 
or,  if  I  do,  I  must  not.  Jack,  I  have 
promised,  don't  you  see  ?  And  when  I 
thought  that  perhaps  he  didn't  care  so 
much,  and  asked  him  —  oh,  I  told  you 
how  beautifully  he  answered  me.  I  will 
never  hurt  him  so,  never  !  " 

"  It  is  disgusting,  it  is  horrible ;  he  is 
twenty-five  years  older  than  you  —  he 
might  be  your  father  !  "  stormed  the  voice. 

"I  —  I  never  cared  for  young  people 
before !  " 

Could  this  be  Lady,  this  shy,  faltering 
girl  ?  Moved  by  an  overmastering  im 
pulse,  the  man  behind  the  summer-house 
turned  his  head  and  looked  through  the 
broken  wall. 

Lady  Jane  was  blushing  and  paling 
in  quick  succession :  the  waves  of  red 
flooded  over  her  moved  face  and  receded 
like  the  tide  at  turn.  Her  eyes  were 
piteous ;  her  hair  fell  low  over  her  fore 
head  ;  she  looked  incredibly  young. 
[212] 


THE  COURTING   OF   LADY  JANE 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  young  man  bit 
terly,  "it  is  a  good  match — a  fine  match. 
You  will  have  a  beautiful  home  and 
everything  you  want." 

She  put  out  her  hands  appealingly. 
"  Oh,  Jack,  how  can  you  hurt  me  so  ? 
You  know  I  would  live  with  you  in  a 
garret — on  the  plains  —  " 

"  Then  do  it." 

"  I  shall  never  hurt  a  person  so  terri 
bly  to  whom  I  have  freely  given  my 
word,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  her  old- 
time  decision. 

Colonel  Driscoll  felt  his  blood  sweep 
ing  through  his  veins  like  wine.  He 
was  far  too  excited  for  finesse,  too  eager — 
and  he  had  been  so  willing  to  wait,  once  ! 
—  for  the  next  sweet  moment  when  this 
almost  tragedy  should  be  resolved  into 
its  elements.  He  strode  out  into  the 
open  space  in  front  of  the  little  house. 

"  My  dear  young  people,"  he  said,  as 
they  stared  at  him  in  absolute  silence,  "  I 
am,  I  am  — "  He  had  intended  to  carry 


THE   COURTING   OP   LADY  JANE 

the  matter  off  jocularly,  but  the  sight  of 
the  girl's  tear-stained  face  and  the  emo 
tion  of  the  minutes  before  had  softened 
and  awed  him.  His  eyes  seemed  yet  to 
hold  those  gray  ones ;  he  felt  strangely 
the  pressure  of  that  soft  body  against 
his. 

"  Ah,  my  dear/'  he  said  gently, cc  could 
you  not  believe  me  when  I  told  you  that 
my  one  wish  was  to  make  you  happy  as 
long  as  I  lived  ?  Happiness  is  not  built 
on  mistakes,  and  you  must  forgive  us  if 
we  do  not  always  allow  youth  to  mo 
nopolize  them. 

"She  has  always  been  like  a  dear  child 
to  me,  Mr.  Morris"  —  he  turned  to  the 
other  man  —  "  and  you  would  never  wish 
me  to  change  my  regard  for  her,  could 
you  know  it ! 

"  Go  with  him,  Lady  dear,  and  forgive 
me  if  I  have  ever  pained  you  —  believe 
me,  I  am  very  happy  to-night." 

He  raised  her  softly  as  she  knelt  be 
fore  him  weeping,  and  kissed  her  hair. 

O4] 


THE   COURTING   OF   LADY   JANE 

"  But  there  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  he 
assured  her. 

They  went  away  hand  in  hand,  happy, 
like  two  dazed  children  for  whom  the 
sky  has  suddenly  but  not — because  they 
are  young — too  miraculously  opened, 
and  the  shrubbery  swallowed  them. 

He  turned  and  strode  back  into  the 
shadow.  Mrs.  Leroy  sat  crouching  on 
the  fallen  timber,  her  head  still  bent. 
Stooping  behind  her,  he  drew  her  toward 
him. 

"  They  have  forgotten  us  by  now," 
he  whispered,  "  can  I  make  you  forget 
them  ?  " 


["Si 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


JULIA    THE    APOSTATE 


T7OIJ  don't  think  it's  too  young  for 
JL  me,  girls  ?  " 

"  Young  for  you  — par  exemple  !  I 
should  say  not/'  her  niece  replied, 
perking  the  quivering  aigrette  still  more 
obliquely  upon  her  aunt's  head.  Caro 
lyn  used  par  exemple  as  a  good  cook 
uses  onion  —  a  hint  of  it  in  everything. 
There  were  those  who  said  that  she  in 
terpolated  it  in  the  Litany  ;  but  Caro 
lyn,  who  was  born  Caroline  and  a  Bap 
tist,  was  too  much  impressed  by  the 
liturgy  of  what  she  called  The  Church  to 
insert  even  an  uncanonized  comma. 

"  Now  don't  touch  it,  Aunt  Julia,  for 
it's  deliciously  chic,  and  if  you  had  your 
[219] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


way  you'd  flatten  it  down  right  straight 
in  the  middle  —  you  know  you  would/' 

Miss  Trueman  pursed  her  lips  quizzi 
cally. 

"I've  always  thought,  Carrie  —  lyn" 
she  added  hastily,  as  her  niece  scowled, 
"  that  they  put  things  askew  to  make  'em 
different  —  for  a  change,  as  you  might 
say.  Now,  if  they're  never  in  the  mid 
dle,  it's  about  as  tiresome,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Elise,  whose  napkin-ring  bore  malig 
nant  witness  to  her  loving  aunt,  Eliza 
Judd,  laughed  irrepressibly :  she  had 
more  sense  of  humor  than  her  sister.  It 
was  she  who,  though  she  had  assisted  in 
polishing  the  old  copper  kettle  subse 
quently  utilized  as  a  holder  for  the  tongs 
and  shovel,  had  refused  to  consider  the 
yet  older  wash-boiler  in  the  light  of  a 
possible  coal-scuttle,  greatly  to  the  relief 
of  her  aunt,  who  blushed  persistently  at 
any  mention  of  the  hearth. 

She  patted  the  older  woman  encour 
agingly. 

[  220] 


JULIA  THE  APOSTATE 


"  That's  right.  Aunt  Ju-ju,  argue  it 
out !  "  she  advised. 

Miss  Trueman  winced.  She  had  never 
accustomed  herself  to  those  senseless 
monosyllables  that  parodied  her  name ; 
nor  could  she  understand  the  frame  of 
mind  that  found  them  preferable  to  the 
comfortable  "Aunt  Jule "  of  the  old 
days. 

"  Ju-ju  !  "  Strips  of  unwholesome 
flesh-colored  paste,  sugar-sprinkled,  dear 
to  her  childish  heart  but  loathed  by  a 
maturer  palate,  rose  to  her  mind.  There 
had  been  another  haunting  recollection  : 
for  months  she  had  been  unable  to  de 
fine  it  perfectly,  though  it  had  always 
brought  a  thrill  of  disgust  with  its  vague 
appeal.  One  day  she  caught  it  and  told 
them. 

"It  was  that  dreadful  creature  Mr. 
Barnum  exhibited,"  she  declared,  "  that 
we  didn't  allow  the  children  to  go  to  see 
—  Jo-jo,  the  Dog-faced  Boy  !  You  re 
member  ?  " 

[221] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


Their  cold  horror,  briefly  expressed, 
had  shown  her  that  she  had  trespassed 
too  far  on  their  indulgence,  and  she 
spoke  of  it  no  more,  but  the  memory 
rankled. 

"  It's  so  strange  you  don't  see  how 
cunning  it  is,"  Carolyn  complained ; 
"  everybody  does  it  now.  The  whole 
Chatworth  family  have  those  names, 
Aunt  Ju,  and  it  is  the  dearest  thing  to 
hear  the  old  doctor  call  Captain  Arthur 
c  Ga-ga.'  You  know  that  dignified  sis 
ter  with  the  lovely  silvery  hair?  Well, 
they  all  call  her  c  Looty.'  And  nobody 
thinks  of  Hunter  Chatworth's  real  name 
—  he's  always  c  Toto.' ' 

"  And  he  has  three  children  !  " 

Miss  Trueman  sighed ;  the  constitu 
tion  of  the  modern  family  amazed  her 
endlessly.  Ga-ga,  indeed  ! 

"  Do    the    children    call     him    Toto, 
too  ?  "  she  demanded,  with  an  attempt  at 
sarcasm,  a  conversational  form  to  which 
she  was  by  nature  a  stranger. 
[  222  ] 


JULIA    THE   APOSTATE 


"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Caro 
lyn  answered  carelessly.  "  I  suppose 
not.  Though  plenty  of  children  do,  you 
know.  Mrs.  Ranger's  little  girl  always 
calls  her  mother  Lou." 

"  Mrs.  Ranger  —  you  mean  the  woman 
that  smokes  ? " 

Miss  Trueman's  tone  brought  vividly 
to  the  mind  a  person  dangling  from  dis 
gusted  finger-tips  a  mouse  or  beetle. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Aunt  Jule  "  — 
in  moments  of  intense  exasperation  they 
reverted  unconsciously  to  the  old  form 
—  "  don't  speak  of  her  as  if  she  smoked 
for  a  living  !  " 

"  I  should  rather  not  speak  of  her  at 
all,"  said  Miss  Trueman  severely. 

They  raised  their  eyebrows  helplessly  : 
Carolyn's  irritation  was  so  unfeigned  that 
she  omitted  a  justly  famous  shrug. 

For  two  years  they  had  devoted  an 
appreciable  part  of  their  busy  hours  to 
modifying  Aunt  Julia's  antique  preju 
dices,  developing  in  her  the  latent  ses- 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


thetic  sense  that  their  Wednesday  art 
class  taught  them  existed  in  every  one, 
cajoling  her  into  a  tolerance  of  certain 
phases  of  modern  literature  considered 
seriously  and  weekly  by  the  Monday 
Afternoon  Club,  and  incidentally  utiliz 
ing  her  as  a  chaperon  and  housekeeper 
in  their  modest  up-town  apartment. 

The  first  six  months  of  her  sojourn 
had  been  almost  entirely  occupied  with 
accustoming  herself  to  the  absence  of  an 
attic  and  a  cellar ;  long  days  of  depres 
sion  they  learned,  finally,  to  trace  to  this 
incredible  source.  Later  she  dealt  with 
the  problem  of  subsisting  from  eight  till 
one  on  two  rolls  and  a  cup  of  coffee ; 
successfully,  in  the  ultimate  issue,  as 
surreptitious  bits  of  fried  ham  and 
buckwheat  cakes,  with  suspicious  odors, 
winked  at  discreetly  by  her  nieces,  wit 
nessed.  It  would  have  been  unkind,  as 
Elise  suggested,  to  criticise  Aunt  Ju-ju's 
performances  at  the  ungodly  hour  of 
seven  in  the  morning,  when  their  own 

[224] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


correctly  Continental  repast,  flanked  by 
a  chrysanthemum  in  a  tall  vase,  not  only 
tallied  so  accurately  with  their  digestive 
and  aesthetic  necessities,  but  appeared, 
moreover,  with  such  gratifying  regularity 
one  hour  later. 

Both  Carolyn  and  her  sister  had  in 
herited  from  their  mother,  Miss  True- 
man's  older  sister,  a  real  gift  for  teaching, 
and  this,  rather  than  their  respective 
abilities  in  art  and  music,  enabled  them 
to  impart  very  successfully  the  elements 
of  these  necessary  branches  to  the  young 
ladies  of  a  fashionable  boarding-school 
just  outside  the  city. 

It  was  politely  regretted  by  their 
friends  that  they  were  unable  to  give 
themselves  unreservedly  to  the  exercise 
of  their  art  without  the  cramping  neces 
sity  for  teaching ;  but  it  is  probable  that 
both  the  girls  estimated  their  not  too 
extraordinary  talents  very  sensibly,  though 
far  from  displeased  by  a  more  flattering 
judgment. 

[225] 


JULIA    THE   APOSTATE 


Miss  Trueman,  who  possessed  the 
characteristic  veneration  of  the  bred  and 
born  New  Englander  for  his  native  or 
imported  school-ma'am,  resented  persist 
ently  their  somewhat  patronizing  atti 
tude  toward  the  profession  second  only 
to  the  ministry  in  her  stanch  respect. 
A  little  of  the  simple  grandeur  of  those 
childhood  days  when  "  the  teacher 
boarded  with  them "  clung  with  the 
ineradicable  force  of  habit  to  her  mind, 
and  she  could  not  understand  their 
restive  attitude  at  "  the  fine  positions  as 
teachers  Hattie's  girls  have  got." 

"I'm  sure  you  make  more  money  than 
that  Miss  Seymour  that  gets  her  own 
meals  in  her  room — she  said  so  herself." 

"  Oh,  well,  there  are  other  things  to 
be  considered,  Aunt  Ju  ;  and,  anyway, 
she's  a  real  bohemian,  Polly  Seymour. 
There's  a  fascination  in  it." 

<c  There's  no  fascination  in  being  hun 
gry  that  I  can  see,  and  she  admitted  that, 
L — Elise,"  Miss  Trueman  insisted  se- 
[226] 


JULIA   THE  APOSTATE 


verely.  "  I  don't  understand  how  she 
could  have  done  it  —  I  would  have  died 
first.  And  she  seemed  to  think  it  was  a 
great  joke  to  have  her  friends  give  her 
a  dinner  —  I  think  it  was  terrible." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Jule,  how  ridiculous ! 
We  were  delighted  to  do  it  —  it  was  per 
fectly  dear  of  her  to  let  us,  too.  And 
think  of  the  people  we  met  there  — 
Rawlins  and  Mr.  Ware  !  You  don't 
mind  being  poor  if  such  men  will  come 
just  out  of  interest  in  you,  I  tell  you.  Do 
you  remember,  Elise,  how  Mr.  Rawlins 
called  her  c  little  girl '  ?  Mr.  Ware  lets* 
her  use  his  models  whenever  she  likes, 
too,"  Carolyn  added  respectfully. 

"  Oh,  she's  bound  to  arrive  !  "  Elise 
agreed. 

Aunt  Ju-ju  sniffed  uncontrolledly. 

"  I  should  hope  she'd  arrive  at  the 
point  where  she  could  buy  her  own  din 
ners,"  she  remarked.  "  To  be  beholden 
for  your  bread  "... 

Here  were  two  points  of  view  as  little 

[227-] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


likely  to  coincide  as  the  parallel  lines  of 
science,  and  at  some  such  stage  as  this 
the  discussions  were  wont  to  cease. 

To-day  the  apartment  was  swept  and 
garnished  for  a  social  function  long 
planned  by  the  nieces.  Carnations  leaned 
from  tall  glass  vases,  intricate  little  cakes 
jostled  carefully  piled  sandwiches,  and  a 
huge  brass  samovar,  borrowed  for  the 
occasion,  gave  dignity  to  the  small  parlor. 
Miss  Trueman  had  learned  by  now  the 
unwritten  law  that  prevented  the  various 
objects  in  the  once  proudly  segregated 
"  drawing-room  set "  from  association 
with  each  other,  and  made  no  attempt 
to  correct  their  intentional  isolation. 
The  samovar  she  refused  utterly  to  med 
dle  with,  assuring  them  that  she  would 
as  soon  think  of  running  a  locomotive. 

As  the  guests  began  to  arrive  Miss 
Trueman  found  herself  regarding  them 
even  more  critically  than  usual;  an  argu 
mentative  spirit  rose  in  her,  and  her  calm 
contradiction  of  Mrs.  Ranger,  who  dis- 

[228] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


cussed  with  great  subtlety  the  notable 
advantages — even  from  the  artistic  point 
of  view — of  the  approaching  spring  when 
experienced  in  the  city,  in  comparison 
with  that  be-rhymed  season's  vaunted 
country  beauties,  startled  more  than  one 
person. 

"Just  because  they're  more  delicate, 
just  because  you  must  look  harder  to 
discover  them,  just  because  you  must 
get  as  much  from  a  pot  of  hyacinths  on 
the  Avenue  as  from  a  whole  field  of  prim 
roses  in  the  backwoods,  you  know,"  she 
concluded,  and  the  little  circle  nodded 
sagely  and  congratulated  themselves  on 
an  unpublished  paragraph. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Ranger," 
said  Aunt  Ju-ju  flatly,  to  the  absolute 
amazement  of  her  nieces  and  the  tolerant 
amusement  of  the  assembly.  "I  guess 
you  haven't  lived  in  the  country  much, 
or  you  wouldn't  talk  so.  And  primroses 
don't  grow  in  fields  here,  anyway.  If 
you  could  see  my  hyacinths  and  crocuses 
[229] 


JULIA   THE  APOSTATE 


in  round  beds  at  home,  you  wouldn't 
mention  those  poor  little  stalks  in  the 
pots." 

Mrs.  Ranger  laughed,  and  directed  her 
searching,  level  glance  at  the  older  wo 
man,  who  combined  in  her  comely,  un 
disguised  middle  age  something  at  once 
more  matronly  and  more  childish  than 
the  analytic  authoress  could  ever  find  in 
her  own  mirror. 

"  Aha  !  "  she  cried,  "  then  you  are  no 
friend  of  dear  old  Horace,  after  all,  Miss 
Trueman  !  He  and  I,  you  see  —  " 

The  relation  of  these  two  urbanites 
was  revealed  no  further,  for  a  bustle  in 
the  little  hall  drew  attention  to  a  new 
comer  unknown  not  only  to  the  guests 
but  evidently  to  the  hostesses,  who  rose, 
smiling  uncertainly,  as  a  portly,  broad- 
shouldered  man  with  iron-gray  hair  made 
his  way  through  the  group  about  the 
samovar. 

"  I'll  have  to  introduce  myself,  I  see," 
he  began,  not  precisely  with  what  an  exi- 

[230] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


gent  society  calls  ease  of  manner,  but 
with  a  certain  practical  self-possession 
quite  as  effective. 

"  I  didn't  expect  the  girls  to  remember 
me,  but  I  thought  perhaps  you  might, 
Julia." 

Miss  Trueman  peered  out  from  the 
shaded  five-o'clock  gloom  so  dear  to 
Carolyn's  soul. 

"I  don't  seem — it's  not — why,  Cousin 
Lorando  Bean,  it's  not  you  ?  " 

"That's  it,"  he  said  heartily,  "that's 
just  exactly  it.  And  he's  mighty  glad 
to  see  some  of  his  relations  again,  I  can 
tell  you.  And  these  are  Carrie  and 
Lizzie,  I  suppose.  Well,  well,  fifteen 
years  is  a  long  time,  even  to  an  old  fellow 
like  me,  and  you  girls  were  just  beginning 
to  be  young  ladies  when  I  left  Connecticut. 
How  are  you  all  ?  " 

If  this  simple  greeting  came  like  a 
breath  of  her  native  air  to  Miss  True 
man,  it  cannot  be  said  to  have  had  a 
similar  effect  on  her  nieces.  Courtesy 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


prevented  a  full  expression  of  their  feel 
ings,  but  they  affected  no  undue  delight 
at  the  presence  of  their  new-found  rela 
tive  —  whom  they  had  very  sincerely  for 
gotten,  along  with  many  other  details  of 
a  somewhat  inartistic  youth — and  turned 
to  their  other  guests  with  a  frank  relief 
when  they  had  established  him,  with  a 
cup  of  tea,  a  sandwich,  and  Aunt  Julia, 
in  the  near-by  dining-room. 

"  A  third  or  fourth  cousin,  I  believe, 
who  has  lived  a  long  time  in  the  West," 
they  explained.  The  company,  some 
of  whom  doubtless  possessed  third  or 
fourth  cousins  from  the  West,  nodded 
comprehensively,  and  the  interrupted 
function  flowed  smoothly  on  again. 

Cousin  Lorando  Bean  balanced  his 
cup  on  his  broad  palm  and  gazed  about 
appreciatively  at  the  casts  and  water-colors 
on  the  dull  green  walls. 

"  Very  snug  little  quarters,  these,"  he 
volunteered,  "  but,  do  you  know,  Cousin 
Jule,  I  suppose  it's  all  right  for  ladies, 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


but  I  don't  seem  to  breathe  extra  well  in 
these  little  rooms,  somehow  !  I've  been 
in  two  or  three  of  them  like  this,  more 
or  less,  since  I  came  to  New  York  — 
people  I  used  to  know  that  I've  been 
hunting  up — and,  by  George,  I  began 
to  feel  as  if  I  was  getting  red  in  the  face, 
if  you  see  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  indeed,  Cousin  Lorando,  I  do," 
returned  Miss  Trueman  eagerly,  "  I  see 
exactly.  And  not  having  any  cellar  — 
you've  no  idea  !  Nor  any  attic,  either. 
And  often  and  often  we  have  the  gas 
lighted  all  through  breakfast.  Of  course 
there  are  a  great  many  conveniences,"  she 
added  loyally,  "  and  there's  no  doubt  it 
saves  steps.  But  I  almost  think  I'd 
rather  take  'em." 

He  nodded. 

"  What's  become  of  the  old  place, 
Cousin  Jule  ?  I  judge  you've  been  out 
of  it  some  time  ?  " 

"  Two  years,  Cousin  Lorando.  The 
girls  had  been  boarding  up  to  then,  and 

[233] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


when  Aunt  Martha  died  they  got  up  this 
plan  for  me  to  come  down  and  live  with 
them,  for  they  couldn't  afford  it  quite, 
alone,  and  then  I  could  chaperon  them." 

Aunt  Julia  delivered  herself  of  this 
phrase  with  a  certain  complacency.  Mr. 
Bean  looked  up  sharply. 

"  That  means  that  nobody  gets  a  show 
to  abduct  'em  while  you're  around,  I 
take  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  We-ell,  not  exactly,"  she  demurred. 

"  But  that's  the  idea  ?  I  thought  so. 
Yes.  How  old  is  Lizzie  now  ?  Thirty?  " 

£C  Oh,  no,  Cousin  Lorando  ;  L — Elise 
isn't  twenty-nine  yet.  Carolyn  is  about 
thirty." 

"  I  don't  seem  to  recall  any  one  chap 
eroning  you  and  Hattie  when  you  were 
thirty,"  he  suggested  thoughtfully. 

She  laughed  involuntarily. 

"  Oh,  Hattie  was  married,  Cousin 
Lorando,  and  the  children  were  ten  years 
old !  And,  anyway,  it  was  different 
then." 

C234] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


"  The  girls  were  just  as  pretty,  I 
guess,"  he  insisted.  "  And  there  were 
plenty  of  buggies,  if  anybody  had  de 
signs." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  buzz  of 
voices  from  the  other  room  rose  loudly. 

"  They  Ve  neither  of  them  got  their 
mother's  looks,"  he  observed ;  and  then, 
with  apparent  irrelevance :  "  When  will 
they  be  considered  safe  to  go  about 
alone  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you 
mean,"  she  began  a  little  coldly,  but  his 
laugh  reassured  her. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  he  contradicted, 
"  and  don't  you  be  getting  cross  at  your 
Cousin  Lorando  Bean !  You  know  I 
always  loved  to  tease  you  ;  it  made  your 
eyes  snap  —  and  it  does  now." 

"  How  can  you  ?  "  She  looked  re 
proachfully  at  him. 

"  And  I  tell  you  this,  Cousin  Jule : 
neither  of  those  girls  will  ever  get  up  a 
color  like  that !  " 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


She  shook  her  head,  but  she  was  not 
displeased.  He  took  out  a  fat  choco 
late-colored  cigar  and  fingered  it  wist 
fully. 

"  I  suppose  I  mustn't  smoke  ? "  he 
queried. 

Her  quick  answer  surprised  herself. 

"  I  should  hope  you  could,  if  that 
woman  can ! " 

"  Which  one  ?  " 

"  That  Mrs.  Ranger,  the  one  near  the 
samovar  —  that  big  brass  thing.  Liz  — 
Elise  didn't  introduce  her  to  you.  They 
don't  introduce  people  the  way  they  do 
at  home,  Cousin  Lorando  —  I  hope  you 
didn't  mind.  They  think  it's  awkward." 

"  Oh,  Lord,  no,  I  don't  mind.  I  can 
spare  her,  anyway.  She's  checked  up 
too  high  for  me.  But  she  can  look  you 
through  pretty  thoroughly,  can't  she  ?  " 

"  She  writes  books,"  Miss  Trueman 
returned,  the  finality  of  her  tone  indicat 
ing  that  she  had  explained  any  possible 
idiosyncrasy  of  the  lady  in  question. 

[236] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


"  Oh,  I  see.  And  the  little  red-haired 
one,  does  she  write  books,  too  ? " 

"  No ;  she's  an  artist.  She  smokes 
too,  though.  Not  cigars,  like  yours, 
but  cigarettes.  She's  supposed  to  be  a 
very  good  painter,  but  she  doesn't  make 
what  Carrie — lyn  makes.  The  girls  have 
very  good  positions  in  Miss  Abrams' 
school." 

"  Um,  what  do  they  get,  now  ?  " 

Miss  Trueman  mentioned  the  modest 
sum  with  pride. 

"  And  then  with  my  money  and  what 
we  get  from  the  rent  of  the  place  —  the 
girls  and  I  each  have  a  third,  you  know 
—  we  do  very  nicely." 

"  So  you  rented  the  place  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Cousin  Lorando,  though  I 
hated  to.  But  I  wouldn't  sell  it,  though 
they  wanted  me  to.  I  just  couldn't." 

"  I  know." 

He  lighted  his  cigar  and  puffed  at  it 
in  meditative  silence  for  a  moment,  while 
the  babble  from  the  parlor  floated  in 

[237] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


with  the  odor  of  the  Ceylon  tea  and 
cigarettes. 

"That's  what  I  came  about.  Cousin 
Jule  —  the  old  place.  You  may  think  it's 
queer,  for  I  never  lived  there  but  two 
years  once,  when  father  and  your  Uncle 
Joe  farmed  it  on  shares ;  but  those  two 
years  just  made  it  home  to  me.  Of 
course  Uncle  Joe  wasn't  any  real  relation 
of  mine,  and  you-all  weren't  my  real 
cousins,  but  it  was  the  only  family  I  ever 
had,  so  to  say,  and  I  loved  every  one  of 
you.  Then  we  moved  back  into  town ; 
but  you  know  I  came  in  every  week  or 
so,  and  Aunt  Martha  used  to  have  my 
room  in  the  attic  ready  for  me,  just  the 
same." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  Aunt  Martha  never 
forgot  you,  Cousin  Lorando." 

"Well,  it's  fifteen  years  since  I  saw 
the  old  place,  and  a  lot's  happened  since 
then,  I  tell  you.  First  place,  I'm  a  rich 
man,  Cousin  Jule. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  one  of  these  multi- 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


millionaires  you  have  about  here,  for  I 
haven't  even  seven  figures  opposite  my 
name ;  but  short  of  that  I  did  very  well 
for  myself  out  West  there,  and  I  earned 
it  all  fair,  too  —  though  I  was  pretty 
lucky,  and  that  counts. 

"  Anyhow,  never  mind  about  that. 
Only  I've  got  enough  to  have  anything 
I  want,  and  to  give  my  friends  some 
thing,  too.  So  as  soon  as  I  got  back 
East  I  went  straight  down  to  the  farm. 
But  it  was  all  shut  up  and  a  kind  of 
green  hedge  where  the  fence  used  to  be, 
and  I  judged  it  was  sold,  and  I  felt 
pretty  sore  about  it,  so  I  came  right 
away." 

"  They  only  come  there  in  June,"  Miss 
Trueman  explained,  "  and  they  go  back 
before  Thanksgiving." 

"Yes.     Well,  I  didn't  know  that." 

He  waited  again  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
Miss  Trueman  sat  in  respectful  silence 
till  he  should  continue. 

"You  see,  I'd  been  East  once  before, 

[>39] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


eight  years  ago,  but  I  didn't  see  the  farm 
then,"  he  said  finally. 

"  I  got  married  while  I  was  West." 

His  audience  of  one  started  slightly. 

"  She's  dead  now/'  he  added  abruptly. 

cc  Oh,  Cousin  Lorando  —  " 

"  You  needn't  bother  about  the  sym 
pathy,  my  dear,  for  there's  none  needed. 
I  hadn't  been  with  her  for  a  good  while. 
I  saw  her  in  a  concert-hall  out  there,  and 
she  had  curly  hair  and  a  kind  of  taking 
way  with  her,  and  so  I  married  her.  I'd 
just  made  a  big  hit,  and  she  wanted  to 
come  to  New  York,  and  we  came.  We 
went  to  a  big  hotel,  and  it  was  dress- 
suits  for  me  and  diamonds  for  her,  and 
we  drove  in  a  carriage  in  the  park  in  the 
afternoon.  She  liked  it,  but  I  soon  got 
enough.  I  don't  care  much  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  She  wanted  to  go  to  the  thea 
tre  and  see  the  girls  that  she'd  been  one 
of,  you  see,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
curtain.  And  she  saw  a  man  there  she 
used  to  know,  and  —  well,  it  turned  out 
she  liked  him  better,  that's  all." 
[240] 


JULIA   THE  APOSTATE 


"  Oh,  Cousin  Lorando,  how  terrible  — 
for  her  !  " 

"  Urn,  yes.  She  didn't  think  it  was 
specially  terrible,  J  guess,  though.  She 
just  packed  up  and  went." 

"Went?" 

"  Yes  —  with  him,  you  see.  Diamonds 
and  all.  I  got  a  divorce,  of  course. 
And  she  wasn't  such  a  bad  lot,  after  all, 
for  he  hadn't  any  money  to  speak  of, 
compared  to  me.  It  was  the  man  she 
wanted.  Well,  she  got  him." 

"  How  awful !  "  Miss  Trueman  mur 
mured. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  felt  pretty  sick  for  a  while. 
But  we  hadn't  been  any  too  happy  be 
fore  she  saw  him,  you  see.  It  was  a  big 
mistake.  She  wasn't  exactly  the  kind  of 
woman  you'd  be  apt  to  know,  you  see. 
So  perhaps  I  got  off  easier  than  I  de 
served.  But  I  never  would  have  mar 
ried  while  she  was  alive.  Not  but  what 
I  had  a  right  to,  you  understand,  but  I 
guess  I'm  old-fashioned  more  ways  than 
one.  I  read  about  her  death  a  year  or 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


so  ago.  I  don't  believe  she  had  any  too 
good  a  time  herself.  She  had  an  awful 
temper.  But  she  certainly  did  have 
pretty  hair/'  he  concluded  thoughtfully. 

Miss  Trueman  gasped. 

"  So  I  didn't  want  to  see  New  York 
again  ;  I  just  hated  the  place.  And  this 
time  I  only  came  because  I  found  out 
you  and  the  girls  were  here,  and  you 
were  about  all  there  was  left.  People 
die  so.  And  I  wanted  to  find  out  about 
the  old  place.  I  wanted  to  buy  it,  if  I 
could,  when  I  thought  it  was  sold." 

"  But,  Cousin  Lorando,  I  couldn't  sell 
it!" 

cc  Oh,  no,  I  s'pose  not.  Still,  I  might 
buy  out  the  girls'  thirds  and  rent  yours, 
couldn't  I  ?  I'd  pay  you  as  much  and 
more  than  anybody  else  would,  I  guess. 
And  you  could  keep  your  interest.  And 
keep  half  of  the  house,  for  that  matter, 
to  use  when  you  wanted  —  it's  big 
enough." 

"Why,  yes,  I  don't  see  why  I  couldn't 

[242] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


do  that,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "  That 
would  be  nice." 

"You  see,  I'm  willing  to  make  any 
arrangement,  Cousin  Jule.  It's  about 
all  there  is  that  I'm  fond  of  now,  that 
old  place.  I  haven't  any  folks  of  my 
own,  and  not  a  chick  nor  child,  and  I 
love  every  stick  and  stone  of  that  farm. 
I  love  the  country,  and  I  love  Connecti 
cut  country  best  of  all,  I  don't  care  if  it 
is  rocky.  You  can't  make  farming  pay 
in  New  England  any  more.  But  I  don't 
need  to  make  it  pay ;  I'm  willing  to  pay 
for  the  pleasure  of  it.  And  I  want  to  do 
something  for  the  town,  too.  I  want 
'em  to  be  glad  I  came  to  settle  there. 
Who's  got  the  keys  ?  " 

"  I  have,  right  here,"  she  answered. 
"  The  furniture  is  all  ours,  you  see ;  they 
haven't  brought  much,  only  they've 
changed  things  all  around.  I  haven't 
renewed  the  lease  yet  for  this  year." 

"Well,  now,  look  here,  Jule,"  Mr. 
Bean  cried  eagerly,  dropping  the  end  of 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


his  cigar  into  a  bonbon-dish  on  the  little 
side-table,  "  why  don't  you  run  right  up 
there  with  me  to-night,  and  we'll  look  it 
all  over  and  sort  of  plan  it  out  ?  We 
can  go  up  on  the  six-thirty,  and  get  there 
by  half-past  ten,  and  stop  at  the  hotel, 
and  be  there  all  ready  to  look  it  over 
to-morrow.  Now,  how's  that  ?  " 

"Why,  but,  Cousin  Lorando  —  I  — 
there  isn't  time  —  I  hadn't  planned  —  " 

"  Lord,  neither  had  I,  but  what's  the 
difference  ?  If  you  want  a  thing  done, 
go  and  do  it  yourself.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  go?  It's  lovely  up  there;  the 
spring's  coming  on  fast,  you  know.  I 
got  lots  of  pussy-willow,  and  some  little 
fellows  told  me  there  were  May-flowers 
somewhere.  You'll  see  more  grass  in  a 
minute  there  than  you  can  hunt  up  here 
in  a  week.  Come  on,  Cousin  Jule  !  " 

"  I  believe  I  will !  "  said  Miss  True- 
man,  with  conviction. 

"  Just  pack  up  a  bag  for  your  aunt, 
Carrie,  while  I  get  a  cab,"  said  Mr. 

[244] 


JULIA  THE   APOSTATE 


Bean  from  the  doorway.  "  We're  going 
up  to  the  old  place — I'm  thinking  of 
buying  it.  I  expect  we'll  be  back  to 
morrow." 

"  Your  cousin  appears  to  be  a  person 
of  decision,"  Mrs.  Ranger  suggested  to 
the  still  dazed  Elise,  as  the  cab  rolled 
away. 

"  I  don't  understand  Aunt  Ju-ju  at 
all,"  Carolyn  interpolated  crossly.  She 
had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  packing  her 
aunt's  bag.  "  She  usually  makes  such  a 
fuss  about  starting  to  go  anywhere — days 
ahead,  in  fact.  And  now  at  fifteen  min 
utes'  notice!  And  her  best  gown!" 

cc  It  makes  a  difference,  having  a  man 
to  run  it,"  said  the  novelist  sagely. 

When  two  days  had  passed  and  their 
aunt  had  not  yet  appeared,  her  nieces 
were  not  unnecessarily  alarmed,  for  her 
attachment  to  her  old  home  was  great, 
and  it  required  no  unusual  degree  of 
imagination  to  picture  her  delighted 
lingering  over  the  old  things,  her  pur- 

[245] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


posely  prolonged  transaction  of  business 
details.  But  four  days  of  unexplained 
absence  had  its  effect  upon  their  own 
little  menage;  and  when  a  week's  visit 
had  been  accomplished  and  their  be 
seeching  letters  had  elicited  only  vague 
postal  cards  explaining  nothing,  but  sug 
gesting  their  presence  at  the  farm,  they 
became  convinced  of  the  necessity  for 
action  on  their  part,  and  went,  more  or 
less  in  the  presumable  spirit  of  the 
mountain  in  search  of  the  fractious 
Prophet. 

Tired  and  cross  after  four  hours*  travel 
on  an  incredibly  hot  ist  of  April,  they 
walked  sternly  up  the  board  walk  that 
led  to  the  old-style  porch,  to  be  greeted 
by  their  cousin,  who  sat  in  snowy  shirt 
sleeves,  tilted  back  in  his  chair  against 
the  house,  smoking  his  fat,  dark  cigar. 

"Welcome  home,  girls  —  glad  to  see 
you  !  "  he  called  cheerily.  "  Here  they 
are,  Jule  !  Now  don't  be  afraid,  but 
come  right  out  and  see  them  !  " 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


cc  Why,  bless  your  heart,  Lorando, 
I'm  not  afraid,"  a  familiar  voice  an 
swered;  and  Aunt  Julia  appeared  before 
them,  cool  in  blue  checked  gingham, 
with  an  enveloping  white  apron  and 
familiarly  floury  hands. 

"  I'm  just  beating  up  some  biscuit  for 
tea,"  she  explained,  "  but  I  guess  you 
can  shake  hands  with  me,  girls  "  ;  and  as 
she  extended  both  arms  hospitably  they 
saw  upon  her  floured  left  hand  an  un 
mistakable  shining  gold  band. 

"  Aunt  Jule  !  "  they  gasped  together. 
"Are  you — is  it — " 

"  That's  it  exactly,"  said  Cousin  Lo 
rando  Bean.  "  She  is.  And  I  hope 
you'll  congratulate  her,  girls,  though  no 
body  knows  better  than  I  what  a  good 
housekeeper  you've  lost !  I'll  tell  you 
the  facts  of  the  matter,  and  you  can 
judge  for  yourself.  If  ever  two  people 
were  made  for  each  other,  those  two  are 
your  Aunt  Jule  and  me.  We  love  the 
country,  and  we  love  this  farm,  and  what's 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


very  important,  we  love  the  same  way 
of  living." 

"That's  quite  true,  Carrie — lyn,"  Aunt 
Julia  interposed,  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
but  a  new  decision  in  her  voice. 

"  I  like  my  tea  at  night,  and  so  does 
your  Cousin  Lorando.  And  I  should 
have  wanted  gravy  on  my  potato  if  I 
lived  to  be  a  hundred.  And,  Carrie,  I 
could  not  live  without  a  cellar! 

"  And  if  you  knew  how  nervous  I  got 
when  that  old  dumb-waiter  in  the  kitchen 
used  to  whistle  for  the  things  to  be  put 
on  it !  I  used  to  hate  it  so  —  sometimes 
I'd  wake  up  in  the  night  and  think  I 
heard  it !  Once  I  lost  my  temper  at  it, 
and  I  answered  it  back:  CI  haven't  any 
thing  to  go  down,  and  I  wouldn't  give  it 
to  you  if  I  had!'" 

".Why,  Aunt  Jule  !  "  they  cried. 

"And  I  tell  you,  Carrie,  when  you 
have  cleaned  house  regularly,  spring  and 
fall,  for  forty  years,  ever  since  you  were 
born,  it  makes  an  awful  break  to  give  it 

[248] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


up !  And  I  do  love  a  good  crayon 
portrait." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"  And  when  you  have  a  set  of  furni 
ture,  it  makes  me  nervous  not  to  have  it 
set  together,"  Aunt  Julia  went  on  de 
terminedly. 

"  And  I  will  not  have  a  woman  smoking 
in  my  house  ! 

"  And  oh,  Carrie,  if  you  knew  how  I 
suffered  with  that  dirty  darky  girl !  " 

"  But  —  but,  Aunt  Jule,  why  didn't 
you—" 

"  You  see,  Carrie  and  Lizzie,  it  was 
this  way,"  said  Mr.  Bean  soothingly. 

"  Your  aunt  and  I  got  talking  old 
times,  and  we  found  that  we  both  felt 
about  the  same.  And  after  we'd  looked 
the  old  house  over  together  a  day  or  two, 
she  couldn't  seem  to  leave  it,  somehow, 
and  she  couldn't  live  in  it  alone,  and  I 
always  wanted  it. 

"  So  I  said,  c  If  you'll  just  step  over  to 
the  parson's,  across  the  street,  with  me, 

[249] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


we'll  fix  this  all  right  in  about  ten 
minutes.  You've  known  me  ever  since 
I  was  a  boy,  and  I've  known  you,  and  it's 
nobody's  business  but  ours  if  we  want  to 
finish  up  together.'  I  may  have  said  a 
few  other  things,  too,  but  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.  And  when  she  said 
what  would  the  girls  do,  I  told  her  that 
what  with  the  full  price  of  their  interest 
in  the  farm,  and  her  third  that  she  could 
add  to  it  —  for  a  sort  of  wedding-present, 
you  see  —  I  didn't  see  but  what  you  could 
well  afford  to  take  a  trip  to  Europe  and 
stay  about  as  long  as  you  liked — she  said 
you  wanted  to  do  that  more  than  any 
thing;  though  why  I  don't  know  — 
Connecticut  ought  to  be  good  enough 
for  anybody ! " 

They  sank  upon  the  porch  steps, 
sincerely  overcome. 

"  I  knew  you'd  like  it  whe.n  you  came 
to  know  it  all,"  said  Aunt  Julia  placidly. 
"  He's  the  kindest  man  — " 

And  to  their  excited  eyes  the  very 
[250] 


JULIA   THE   APOSTATE 


tidies  on  the  geometrically  arranged 
chairs,  the  bright  rag  rugs  on  the  floor, 
the  biscuits  and  preserves  consecrated  to 
their  New  England  tea,  yes,  even  the 
insistent  shirt-sleeves  of  Cousin  Lorando 
Bean,  were  lighted  by  a  halo  of  content. 


MRS.  DUD'S   SISTER 


MRS.   DUD'S  SISTER 


THEY  were  having  tea  on  the  ter 
race.  As  Varian  strolled  up  to  the 
group  he  wished  that  Hunter  could 
see  the  picture  they  made  —  Hunter,  who 
had  not  been  in  America  for  thirty  years, 
and  who  had  been  so  honestly  surprised 
when  Varian  had  spoken  of  Mrs.  Dud's 
pretty  maids — she  always  had  pretty  ones, 
even  to  the  cook's  third  assistant. 

"Maids?  Maids?  It  used  to  be 
c  help,'  "  he  had  protested.  "  You  don't 
mean  to  say  they  have  waitresses  in 
Binghamville  now  ? " 

Varian  had  despaired  of  giving  him 
any  idea. 

"  Come  over  and   see   Mrs.  Dud,"  he 

[>55] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


had  urged,  "  and  do  her  portrait.  We've 
moved  on  since  you  left  us,  you  know. 
She's  a  wonder  —  she  really  is.  When 
you  remember  how  she  used  to  carry  her 
father's  dinner  to  the  store  Saturday 
afternoons  — " 

cc  And  now  I  suppose  she  sports  real 
Mechlin  on  her  cap,"  assented  Hunter, 
anxious  to  show  how  perfectly  he  caught 
the  situation. 

Varian  had  roared  helplessly.  "  Cap  ? 
Cap  !  "  he  had  moaned  finally.  "  Oh,  my 
sainted  granny  !  Cap  !  My  poor  fellow, 
your  view  of  Binghamville  must  be  like 
the  old  maps  of  Africa  in  the  green  geog 
raphy,  that  said  c  desert '  and  '  interior  ' 
and  c  savage  tribes '  from  time  to  time. 

I  should  like  awfully  to  see  Mrs.  Dud  in 

» 
a  cap. 

Hunter  had  looked  puzzled. 

"  But,  dear  me  !  she  might  very  well 
wear  one,  I  should  think,"  he  had  mur 
mured  defensively.  "  I  don't  wish  to  be 
invidious,  but  surely  Lizzie  must  be  — 

[256] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


let's  see  ;  'eighty,  'ninety  —  why,  she  must 
be  between  forty-five  and  fifty  now." 

Varian  had  waved  his  hand  dramati 
cally.  "  Nobody  considers  Mrs.  Dud  and 
time  in  the  same  breath.  If  you  could 
see  her  in  her  golf  rig !  Or  on  a  horse  ! 
She  even  sheds  a  lustre  on  the  rest  of 
us.  I  forget  my  rheumatism  !  " 

But  Hunter,  retreating  behind  his  de 
termination  to  avoid  a  second  seasick 
ness  —  itmight  have  been  sincere ;  nobody 
ever  knew  —  had  stayed  in  Florence,  and 
Varian  had  been  obliged  to  come  without 
him  to  the  house-party. 

On  a  straw  cushion,  a  cup  in  her  strong 
white  hand,  a  bunch  of  adoring  young 
girls  at  her  feet,  sat  Mrs.  Dud.  Rosy  and 
firm-cheeked,  crisp  in  stiff  white  duck, 
deliciously  contrasted  with  her  fluffy  Pa 
risian  parasol,  she  scorned  the  softening 
ruffles  of  her  presumable  contempora 
ries  ;  her  delicately  squared  chin,  for  the 
most  part  held  high,  showed  a  straight 
white  collar  under  a  throat  only  a  little 

[257] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


fuller  than  the  girlish  ones  all  around 
her. 

Old  Dudley  himself  strolled  about  the 
group,  gossiping  here  and  there  with 
some  pretty  woman,  sending  the  grave 
servants  from  one  to  another  with  some 
particularly  desirable  sandwich,  "  rub 
bing  it  in,"  as  he  said  to  the  men  who 
had  failed  to  touch  his  score  on  the  links, 
tantalizingly  uncertain  as  to  which  one 
of  the  young  women  he  would  invite  to 
lead  the  cotillon  with  him  at  the  club 
dance  that  week  :  none  of  the  young  men 
could  take  his  place  at  that,  as  they  them 
selves  enviously  admitted. 

What  a  well-matched  couple  it  was  ! 
What  a  lot  they  got  out  of  life  !  Varian 
walked  quietly  by  the  group,  to  enjoy 
better  the  pretty,  modish  picture  they 
made.  Their  quick  chatter,  their  bursts 
of  laughter,  the  sweet  faint  odor  of  the 
tea,  the  gay  dresses  and  light  flannels, 
with  the  quiet,  sombrely  attired  servants 
to  add  tone,  all  gave  him,  fresh  from 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


Hunter's  quick  sense  of  the  effective,  an 
appreciation  that  gained  force  from  his 
separateness ;  he  walked  farther  away  to 
get  a  different  point  of  view. 

He  was  out  of  any  path  now,  and  sud 
denly,  hardly  beyond  reach  of  their 
voices,  he  found  himself  in  a  part  of 
the  grounds  he  had  never  approached  be 
fore.  A  thick  high  hedge  shut  in  a  kind 
of  court  at  the  side  and  back  of  the  great 
house,  and  a  solid  wooden  door,  carefully 
matched  to  its  green,  left  open  by  acci 
dent,  showed  a  picture  so  out  of  line  with 
the  succession  of  vivid  scenes  that  daz 
zled  the  visitor  at  Wilton  Bluffs  that 
he  stopped  involuntarily.  The  rectangle 
was  carpeted  with  the  characteristic 
emerald  turf  of  the  place,  divided  by  in 
tersecting  red  brick  paths  into  four  regu 
lar  squares.  In  the  farther  corner  of  each 
of  these  a  trim  green  clothes-tree  was 
planted,  all  abloom  with  snowy  fringed 
napkins  that  shone  dazzling  white  against 
the  hedge.  One  of  the  squares  was  a 

l>59] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


neat  little  kitchen-garden ;  parsley  was 
there  in  plenty,  and  other  vaguely  famil 
iar  green  things,  curly-leaved  and  spear- 
pointed.  A  warm  gust  of  wind  brought 
mint  to  his  nostrils.  A  second  plot  held 
a  small  crab-apple  tree  covered  with  pink 
and  orange  globes.  A  great  tortoise-shell 
cat  with  two  kittens  ornamented  the 
third,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  fourth,  be 
side  a  small  wooden  table,  a  woman  sat 
with  her  back  toward  the  intruder.  On 
the  table  were  one  or  two  tin  boxes  and 
a  yellow  earthen  dish ;  in  her  left  hand, 
raised  to  the  shoulder-level,  was  a  tall 
thin  bottle,  from  which  an  amber  fluid 
dripped  in  an  almost  imperceptibly  thin 
stream;  her  right  arm  stirred  vigorously. 
She  was  a  middle-aged  woman  with 
lightly  grayed  hair — a  kind  of  premoni 
tory  powdering.  Over  her  full  skirt  of 
lavender-striped  cotton  stuff  fell  a  broad, 
competent  white  apron.  Except  for  the 
thudding  of  the  spoon  against  the  bowl, 
and  a  faint,  homely  echo  of  clashing 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


china  and  tin,  mingled  with  occasionally 
raised  voices  and  laughter  from  some 
farther  kitchen  region,  all  was  utterly, 
placidly  still. 

Varian  stood  chained  to  the  open  gate. 
Something  in  the  calm  sun-bathed  pict 
ure  tugged  strongly  at  his  heart.  He 
thought  suddenly  of  his  mother  and  his 
Aunt  Delia — he  had  been  very  fond  of 
Aunt  Delia.  And  what  cookies  she  used 
to  make !  Molasses  cookies,  brown, 
moist,  and  crumbly,  they  had  sweetened 
his  boyhood. 

What  was  it,  that  delighted  sense  of 
congruity  that  filled  him,  every  passing 
second,  with  keener  familiarity,  so 
strangely  tinged  with  sorrow  and  regret  ? 
Ah,  he  had  it !  He  bit  his  lip  as  it  came 
clear  to  him.  His  little  namesake  neph 
ew,  dead  at  eight  years  old,  and  dear 
as  only  a  dearly  loved  child  can  be,  had 
delighted  greatly  in  the  Kate  Greenaway 
pictures  that  came  in  "  painting-books," 
with  colored  prints  on  alternate  pages 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


and  corresponding  outlines  on  the  others. 
Dozens  of  those  books  the  boy  had  clev 
erly  filled  in  with  his  little  japanned 
paint-box  and  mussy,  quill-handled 
brushes  ;  and  the  scene  before  him,  the 
rich  tints  of  the  hedge,  the  symmetrical 
little  tree  brilliant  with  hundreds  of  tiny 
globes,  the  big  white  apron,  the  lazy  yel 
low  cats,  and  everywhere  the  prim  rec 
tangular  lines  so  amusingly  conventional 
to  accentuate  the  likeness,  almost  choked 
him  with  the  suddenness  of  the  recog 
nition.  They  must  have  colored  that 
very  picture  a  dozen  times,  Tommy 
and  he. 

Half  unconsciously  he  rested  his  arms 
on  the  top  of  the  gate  and  drifted  into 
revery.  He  forgot  that  he  was  at  Wilton 
Bluffs,  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  country 
palaces,  and  lived  for  a  while  in  a  min 
gled  vision  of  his  boyhood  on  the  old 
farm  and  in  the  land  of  the  Greenaway 
painting-books. 

Suddenly  a  door  opened  into  the  green. 

[262] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


A  housemaid  advanced  to  the  table,  bear 
ing  in  both  red  hands  a  long  tray  covered 
with  a  napkin.  On  the  napkin  lay,  heaped 
in  rich  confusion,  a  great  pile  of  spicy, 
smoking  brown  cookies. 

"  They're  just  out  o'  the  oven,"  she 
began,  but  Varian  could  contain  himself 
no  longer.  He  could  not  be  deceived: 
he  would  have  known  those  cookies  in 
the  Desert  of  Sahara.  He  crossed  the 
little  plot  in  three  long  steps,  and  faced 
the  astonished  maid. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  firmly, 
"  but  it  is  very  necessary  that  I  should 
have  one  of  those  cookies  !  I  hope  you 
can  spare  one  ?  " 

She  giggled  convulsively. 

cc  I — I  guess  you  can,  sir,"  she  mur 
mured,  laying  down  the  tray  and  re 
treating  toward  the  house  door. 

Varian  faced  the  older  woman,  and, 
with  hat  still  in  hand,  instinctively  bowed 
lower  ;  for  this  was  no  housekeeper — 
he  was  sure  of  that.  Even  as  she  met  his 

[263] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


eyes  a  great  flood  of  pink  rushed  to  her 
smooth  forehead,  and  she  dropped  her 
lids  as  she  bowed  slightly.  He  reflected 
irrelevantly  that  he  had  never  seen  Mrs. 
Dudley  blush  in  his  life. 

"  You  are  very  welcome  to  all  you 
wish,  I  am  sure,"  she  said  graciously. 
"I  —  I  didn't  know  any  one  liked  them 
but  me.  I  always  have  them  made  for 
me  —  I  taught  her  the  rule.  I  always 
call  them"  —  she  laughed  nervously,  and 
it  dawned  on  him  that  this  woman  was 
really  shy  and  "  talking  against  time," 
as  they  said — "I  always  call  them  cAunt 
Delia's  cookies.'  They — " 

"Aunt  Delia's  cookies!"  he  inter 
rupted.  "  What  Aunt  Delia  ?  " 

"Aunt  Delia  Parmentre,"  she  re 
turned,  a  little  surprised,  evidently,  at 
this  stranger,  who,  with  a  straw  sailor-hat 
in  one  hand  and  a  warm  molasses  cooky 
in  the  other,  stared  so  intently  at  her. 
"She  wasn't  really  my  aunt,  of  course — " 

"  But  she  was  mine !  "  he  burst  out, 

[264] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


"  and  these  are  her  cookies,  and  no  mis 
take.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

Again  she  flushed,  but  more  lightly. 

"  I  am  Miss  Redding,"  she  said  with 
a  gentle  dignity,  "  Mrs.  Wilton's  sister." 

He  stared  at  her  vaguely. 

"Mrs.  Wilton — oh!  you're  her  sis 
ter?  I  didn't  know  —  "  He  stopped 
abruptly.  As  his  confusion  grew,  her 
own  faded  away. 

"You  didn't  know  she  had  one?"  she 
asked,  almost  mischievously. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  he 
recovered  himself.  "You've  never  been 
with  Mrs.  Dud  before,  have  you  ? " 

"  No,  not  here  when  there  was  com 
pany,"  she  said. 

He  hardly  noticed  the  words ;  his 
mind  was  groping  among  past  histories. 

"Her  sister  —  her  sister,"  he  mut 
tered.  "  Why,  then,"  with  an  illumi 
nating  smile,  "  I  used  to  go  to  school  with 
you  !  I'm  Tom  Varian  !  " 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand. 

[265] 


MRS.    DUD'S    SISTER 


"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said 
cordially.  "  Won't  you  —  "  She  looked 
about  for  a  chair,  but  he  dropped  on  the 
grass  at  her  feet. 

"You've  changed  since  we  met  last," 
he  remarked,  biting  into  his  cooky.  She 
looked  at  his  bronzed  face  and  thick  sil 
vered  hair  and  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"  I  was  six  years  old  then,"  she  said ; 
"  and  you  were  one  of  the  (  big  boys  '  — 
you  were  fourteen." 

"  That's  a  long  while,"  he  suggested 
laughingly. 

"  It  is  thirty-six  years,"  she  replied 
simply. 

He  winced.  His  associates  were  not 
accustomed  to  be  so  scrupulously  accu 
rate.  It  seemed  indecently  long  ago. 
And  yet  there  was  a  certain  charm,  now 
one  faced  it,  a  quaint  halo  of  interest. 

"  You  used  to  hand  me  water  in  a  tin 
dipper,"  he  said. 

She  nodded.  "  Yes,  that  was  for  a 
reward,  when  I  was  good,"  she  said 
[266] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


seriously.  "  I  could  hand  the  water  to 
the  big  boys.  I  was  very  proud  of  it. 
You  drank  a  great  deal." 

He  chuckled.  "  I  was  born  thirsty," 
he  acknowledged.  "By  George,  how 
it  comes  back !  I  can  see  it  now,  that 
school-house!  Funny  little  red  thing — 
remember  how  it  looked  ?  Big  shelf 
around  the  sides  for  a  desk,  and  another 
under  that  for  the  books  ?  Bench  all 
round  the  room  to  sit  on,  and  we  just 
whopped  our  legs  over  and  faced  round 
to  recite?  And  carved  —  Lord!  I  don't 
believe  there  was  an  inch  of  the  wood, 
all  told,  that  was  clear  !  I  nearly  cut 
my  thumb  off  there,  one  day." 

"  One  of  the  big  girls  fainted  away," 
she  added,  "  and  they  laid  her  on  the 
floor  and  told  me  to  bring  a  dipper  of 
water ;  but  my  hand  shook  so  I  spilled  it 
all  over  my  apron,  and  she  came  to  be 
fore  we  got  more.  I  was  very  timid." 

He  began  on  another  cooky. 

"  Did   you   have   two  pigtails  ?     And 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


striped  stockings?"  he  inquired,  his  eyes 
fixed  reminiscently  on  the  hedge. 

She  nodded  softly. 

"  And  played  some  game  with  stones? 
I  can't  just  remember  —  " 

"  It  was  houses,"  she  reminded  him. 
"  We  little  girls  used  to  make  little 
houses — just  marked  out  with  stones 
in  squares  on  the  ground ;  and  if  you 
boys  felt  like  it,  you'd  bring  us  big  flat 
stones  to  eat  our  dinner  on." 

"Ah,  yes  !  "  It  all  came  back  to  him. 
"And  then  you'd  race  off  to  get  flag-root 
or  something,  and  —  " 

"And  gobble  our  dinner  as  we  ran.  It 
was  fun,  all  the  same,"  she  added. 

"  But  what  a  mite  you  were,  to  be  in 
school !  "  he  said  wonderingly.  "  What 
under  heaven  did  you  study?" 

"  I  don't  remember  at  all,"  she  con 
fessed.  "  But  I  suppose  I  spelled.  Do 
you  remember  the  spelling-matches  ? 
And  how  you  big  ones  wanted  to  ( leave 
off  head'?" 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


He  chuckled.  "  I  should  say  I  did ! 
And  sometimes  the  greatest  idiot  would 
cleave  off  head'  because  there  wasn't  any 
more  time.  It  was  maddening  !  " 

He  munched  in  silence  for  a  while,  and 
she  did  not  dream  of  interrupting. 

"In  the  winter,  though — George!  but 
it  was  cold  !  We  used  to  positively  swim 
through  the  drifts.  I  tell  you,  there 
aren't  any  such  snows  now  !  How  did 
you  get  there  ?  " 

"  I  only  went  in  the  summer,"  she 
said ;  "  and  I  used  to  come  in  all  stained 
with  the  berries  I  ate  along  the  way.  It 
was  dreadful  "  —  she  grew  stern,  as  if  ad 
dressing  the  little  girl  in  striped  stock 
ings  and  pigtails  — "the  way  I  ate  berries ! 
I  used  to  eat  the  bushes  clean  on  the  way 
to  school !  " 

She  had  got  over  her  first  shyness,  and 
had  gained  time  to  realize  her  big  apron, 
which  she  hastily  untied.  He  caught  the 
motion  and  protested. 

"  No,  no  !     Keep   it   on  !     I    haven't 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


seen  a  woman — a  lady — in  an  apron  for 
years  !  Please  keep  it  on  !  And  do  go 
on  with  the — the  mess  in  the  dish  !  " 

"The  mess"  —  she  bent  her  brows  re 
provingly —  "it's  mayonnaise  sauce.  But 
I  don't  think—" 

He  jumped  up  to  put  the  bowl  in  her 
lap.  A  sudden  twinge  in  his  knee  wrung 
an  involuntary  groan  from  him.  He 
walked  a  little  stiffly  toward  her. 

"  You  have  rheumatism  !  And  you 
sat  all  the  time  on  that  damp  grass  !  " 
she  cried  reproachfully.  "  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  the  craziest  thing  to  do,  but 
I  didn't  dare  say  so." 

He  ignored  the  charge  but  smiled  at 
the  confession. 

"And  now  you're  not  afraid?" 

She  blushed  again.  It  was  very  be 
coming. 

"It  seems — it  seems  foolish  to  act  like 
strangers  when  it's  been  so  long — we  re 
member  so  well — "  She  sighed  a  little. 
He  studied  her  face — so  like  her  sister's 
[270] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


and  so  utterly  different.  The  same  gray 
eyes,  but  calm  and  drooped ;  the  same 
clear  white  skin,  but  a  fuller,  yes,  a  more 
matronly  face,  a  riper,  sweeter,  more  rest 
ful  curve.  The  soft  dark  shadows  that 
accentuated  Mrs.  Dudley's  eyes  were 
lacking ;  a  group  of  tiny  wrinkles  at  the 
corners  gave  her  instead  a  pleasant,  hu 
morous  regard  that  her  sister's  literal 
directness  missed  utterly. 

Nervous  under  his  scrutiny,  she  rose 
hastily,  and  before  he  could  prevent  her 
she  had  brought  him  a  roomy  arm-chair 
from  the  house. 

"At  our  age  there's  no  use  in  running 
risks,"  she  said  simply,  "  you  ought 
not  to  sit  on  the  grass  ;  leave  that  for 
the  young  folks." 

Again  he  winced,  but  dropped  with 
relief  into  the  chair. 

"  Oh,  one  must  keep  up  with  the  pro 
cession,  you  know  !  "  he  said  lightly. 

She  made  no  reply ;  and  as  she  lifted 
the  bottle  and  began  to  beat  the  yellow 


MRS.    DUD'S    SISTER 


mass  again,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the 
remark  was  exceptionally  silly. 

"  Does  it  have  to  go  in  slowly  like 
that — the  whole  bottleful?"  he  inquired 
lazily. 

She  nodded.  "  Or  it  curdles,"  she 
explained.  "  The  cook  sprained  his 
wrist  yesterday.  He  never  allows  any 
body  to  make  the  mayonnaise  —  he  can't 
trust  them  —  and  I  was  glad  to  do  it  for 
him.  He  says  mine  is  as  good  as  his. 
Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  no/'  Varian  returned.  "  But 
he  doesn't  need  to  be  seen  to  be  appre 
ciated." 

A  strange  suspicion  crept  over  him. 

"  Do  you  often —  Do  you  do  much — 
How  is  it  that  you  — "  He  could  not 
say  it  properly.  Was  it  possible  that 
Mrs.  Dud —  It  was  unworthy  of  her! 

She  caught  his  meaning,  and  her  cool 
gray  eyes  met  his  with  their  uncompro 
mising  directness.     He  seemed  convicted 
of  unnecessary  shuffling. 
[272] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


"  Oh,  Lizzie  asked  me  not  to  do  any 
thing,"  she  said  quietly.  "  She  wanted 
me  to  enjoy  myself  with  her  friends.  But 
I'm  not  used  to  so  much  society,  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  any  hinderance.  I'm 
not  so  young  as  I  used  to  be.  I'd  have 
liked  the  gayety  well  enough  when  I  was 
a  girl,  but  I  guess  it  tires  me  a  little  now. 
There  seems  to  be  so  much  going  on  all 
the  time.  Lizzie  says  she's  resting,  but 
it  wouldn't  rest  me.  Do  you  find  it  so?" 

He  recalled  his  yesterday's  programme  : 
driving  a  pulling  team  all  the  morning ; 
carrying  Mrs.  Dud's  heavy  bag  over  the 
links  all  the  afternoon  —  she  preferred 
her  friends  to  caddies ;  prompting  for 
the  dramatics  rehearsal,  with  a  poor  light, 
all  the  evening,  while  the  actors  gossiped 
and  squabbled  and  flirted  contentedly. 

"  It  is  not  always  restful,"  he  ad 
mitted. 

"  It  makes  my  head  ache,"  she  re 
marked  placidly.  "  I  like  to  see  the 
girls  enjoy  themselves.  I'm  glad  they're 

[273] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


happy  —  some  of  those  visiting  Lizzie 
are  so  pretty  !  —  but  I'm  glad  I  haven't 
got  to  run  about  so  much.  I'm  very 
fond  of  driving  myself,  if  I  have  a  good 
quiet  horse  that  won't  shy  and  doesn't  go 
fast,  and  Lizzie  has  one  for  me  —  a  white 
one  that's  gentle  —  and  I  drive  about  in 
the  phaeton  a  great  deal.  The  doctor 
that  came  that  night  —  were  you  here  ? — • 
when  Mrs.  Page  fainted  and  they  couldn't 
bring  her  to  (it  seems  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  taking  some  medicine  to  make  her 
sleep,  and  it  weakened  her  heart)  asked 
me  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  take  out  some 
patients  of  his,  and  so  I  called  for  a  very 
nice  lady —  a  Mrs.  Williams  ;  you  prob 
ably  don't  know  her  ? — and  after  that  a 
young  girl  with  spinal  trouble,  and  —  and 
several  others.  They  seemed  to  enjoy 
it,  and  I'm  sure  I  did.  Once  I  took  a 
young  girl  that's  staying  here  —  she  had 
a  bad  headache.  She  was  a  sweet  girl, 
and  I  liked  her.  She  said  the  drive 
helped  her  a  great  deal.  It's  astonish- 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


ing  "  — •  her  eyes  met  his  wonderingly  — 
"  how  much  trouble  you  can  have,  with 
all  the  money  you  want !  I  —  I  was 
sorry  for  her,"  she  added,  half  to  her 
self. 

Before  he  thought  he  leaned  forward, 
took  her  hand  with  the  silver  tablespoon 
in  it,  and  kissed  it  gently.  He  admired 
her  as  he  would  admire  some  charming 
soft  pastel  hung  in  a  cool  white  room. 

"  How  sweet  and  good  you  are  !"  he 
said  warmly  ;  and  then,  to  cover  her  deep 
embarrassment  and  his  own  sudden  emo 
tion,  he  continued  quickly,  "Are  you 
very  busy  in  the  morning,  always  ?  " 

"  There  are  different  things,"  she  mur 
mured,  still  looking  at  her  spoon.  cc  I 
have  letters  to  write  —  I  keep  up  with  a 
good  many  old  friends  in  Binghamville 
and  Albany,  where  I  lived  with  my  mar 
ried  niece  ten  years,  till  they  moved 
West.  I  loved  her  children ;  I  half 
brought  them  up.  One  died ;  I  can't 
seem  to  get  over  it — "  Her  eyes  filled, 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


and  she  made  no  effort  to  cover  two  tears 
that  slipped  over. 

Varian  took  her  hand  again.  "  I  know 
about  that —  I  know  !  "  he  said  softly. 

"  Then  there  are  my  flowers  ;  I  do  so 
enjoy  the  beds  and  the  greenhouses  here," 
she  went  on  more  cheerfully.  cc  The 
gardeners  are  very  kind  to  me  —  I  think 
they  like  to  have  me  come  in.  Mr. 
McFadden  gives  me  a  good  many  slips 
and  cuttings.  I  love  flowers  dearly. 
Then  I  read  a  good  deal,  and  there  is 
always  some  little  thing  to  do  for  the 
young  girls  here.  They  —  the  ones  I 
know  —  come  in  for  a  moment  while  I 
mend  something,  or  pin  their  things  in 
the  back,  and  it's  surprising  how  much 
there  is  to  do  !  They  fly  about  so  they 
can't  stop  to  take  care  of  their  things. 
They  talk  to  me  while  I  set  them  straight, 
and  it's  very  interesting.  I  tell  Lizzie  I 
go  out  a  great  deal,  just  hearing  about 
their  adventures,  when  she  drops  in  to 
see  me.  She  never  forgets  me  ;  she  brings 

[276] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


somebody  to  my  sitting-room  every  day 
or  so  that  she  thinks  I'd  enjoy  meeting  — 
and  I  always  do.  She  never  makes  a 
mistake." 

"  Oh,  she's  wonderful/'  Varian  agreed 
easily.  "  There's  nobody  like  Mrs.  Dud, 
of  course." 

She  stopped  her  work  a  moment  and 
looked  curiously  at  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  she 
asked.  "You  all  say  it  —  in  just  that 
way  ;  but  I  don't  think  I  quite  see  what 
you  mean.  Why  is  she  wonderful  ? 
Because  she  looks  so  young  ?  " 

"  That,  in  the  first  place,"  Varian  re 
turned,  with  a  smile,  "  but  not  only 
that." 

"  Of  course  that  is  very  strange,"  she 
mused.  "Now  Lizzie  is  three  years 
older  than  I.  You  would  never  think  it, 
would  you  ?  " 

"No,"  he  agreed,  still  smiling;  "but 
then,  Mrs. Dud  looks  younger  than  every 
body.  It  is  her  specialty.  I  think  what 

[277] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


we  mean,"  he  continued,  "  is  her  amazing 
capacity ;  she  does  so  much,  so  ridicu 
lously  much,  and  so  much  better  than 
other  people.  We  try  to  keep  up  with 
things  —  your  sister  is  a  little  bit  ahead. 
She  seems  to  have  always  been  doing  the 
very  latest  thing,  you  see.  And  all  her 
responsibilities,  her  various  affairs  —  it 
makes  one's  head  swim  !  The  women 
have  set  themselves  a  tremendous  field 
to  cover  nowadays,  and  when  one  suc 
ceeds  so  admirably  — "  He  paused. 

She  shook  her  head  thoughtfully. 

"  But  everything  is  done  for  her  !  "  she 
protested.  "  Why,  I  have  never  yet  seen 
all  the  servants  in  this  house  !  And  you 
know  there  is  a  housekeeper?  Lizzie 
sees  her  a  little  while  in  the  morning, 
that's  all.  And  she  never  sews  a  stitch  — 
there's  a  seamstress  here  all  the  time,  you 
know,  and  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  clothes  that  come  home  in  boxes. 
And  little  Dudley  has  his  tutor,  and  his 
old  nurse  that  looks  after  his  clothes. 

[478] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


What  is  it  that  she  does  to  make  it  so 
wonderful  ?  " 

He  only  smiled  at  her  perplexity,  and 
she  added  confidentially : 

"  Lizzie  wanted  me  to  go  to  her  dress 
maker,  but  I  didn't  like  the  idea  of  a 
man,  to  begin  with,  and  then  I  knew  Miss 
Simms  would  feel  so  hurt.  She  lives  in 
Albany,  and  she's  made  my  dresses  for  so 
long  that  I  thought,  though  she  may  not 
be  so  stylish,  I'd  better  keep  up  with  her ; 
wouldn't  you  ? " 

A  perfectly  unreasonable  tenderness 
surged  through  his  heart.  How  sweet  she 
was  ! 

"If  she  made  that  dress,  I  certainly 
should  !  "  he  declared. 

She  smoothed  the  crisp  lavender  folds 
deprecatingly. 

"  Oh,  this  is  only  a  cotton  dress,"  she 
said.  "  But  she  made  my  gray  silk,  too, 
and  Lizzie  herself  said  it  fitted  beautifully.'' 

She  took  up  the  bottle  again  :  it  was 
nearly  empty. 

[279] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


"  Now  my  mother,"  she  began,  "  she 
was  wonderful,  if  you  like.  Do  you 
know  what  my  mother  used  to  do  ?  We 
lived  on  the  farm,  you  know,  like  yours, 
and  most  of  the  work  of  that  farm  mother 
did.  She  did  the  cooking  —  for  all  the 
hired  hands,  too  ;  she  made  the  butter, 
and  took  care  of  the  hens  ;  she  made  the 
candles  and  the  soap  ;  she  made  the  car 
pets  and  all  our  clothes  —  my  brothers', 
too  ;  and  she  put  up  preserves  and  jellies 
and  cordials,  and  did  the  most  beautiful 
embroidery ;  I  have  some  of  mother's 
embroidered  collars,  and  I  can't  do  any 
thing  like  them." 

"It  was  tremendous,"  he  said.  "  My 
Aunt  Delia  did  that,  too." 

"We  were  old-fashioned,  even  for 
then,"  she  said.  "  Everybody  didn't  do 
so  much,  of  course,  as  we  did.  Lizzie 
says  we  were  just  on  the  edge  of  the  new 
age.  It  certainly  is  different.  And  of 
course  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  it  for  any 
thing.  After  we  came  back  from  board- 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


ing-school  it  was  all  changed.  We 
moved,  then,  nearer  the  town.  But,  do 
you  know,  my  mother  went  to  singing- 
school,  and  Lizzie  was  looking  that  up 
in  a  book,  the  other  day,  to  see  what  they 
did  —  she  wanted  it  for  a  party!  " 

He  laughed.  "  That  is  delicious  !  " 
he  said. 

"  See  what  I  found  to-day  !  "  she  added, 
drawing  a  small  object  from  her  pocket. 
"  I  hunted  it  up  to  show  Miss  Porter  to 
night.  She  was  so  interested  when  I  told 
her  about  it." 

She  showed  him,  with  a  tender  amuse 
ment,  a  little  slender  white  silk  mitten. 
Around  the  wrist  was  embroidered  in 
dark  blue  a  legend  in  Old  English  script. 
He  puzzled  it  out :  A  Whig  or  no  Hus 
band! 

"  That  was  mother's,"  she  said,  cc  the 
girls  wore  them  then.  She  was  quite  a 
belle,  mother  was !  And  when  people 
ask  me  how  Lizzie  does  so  much,  I  say 
that  she  inherits  it.  But  at  her  age 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


mother  was  broken  down  and  old.  She 
had  to  be.  There  were  nine  of  us,  and 
here  there's  only  little  Dudley,  and  it  was 
so  long  before  he  came." 

They  sat  quietly.  The  setting  sun 
flamed  through  the  crab-apples  and 
burnished  the  fur  of  the  tortoise-shell 
cat.  The  mint  smelled  strong.  The 
sweet,  mellow  summer  evening  was  re 
flected  in  her  handsome  face,  with  its 
delicate  lines,  that  only  added  a  restful 
charm  to  forehead  and  cheek.  He  had 
no  need  to  talk ;  it  was  very,  very  pleas 
ant  sitting  there. 

A  maid  came  out  to  get  the  mayon 
naise,  and  the  spell  was  broken.  He  took 
out  his  watch. 

"  Just  time  to  dress,"  he  sighed.  "  Will 
you  be  here  again  ?  We  must  talk  old 
times  once  more." 

She  smiled  and  seemed  to  assent,  but 
her  eyes  were  not  on  him  ;  she  was  still 
in  a  revery.  He  walked  softly  away. 
She  seemed  hardly  to  notice  him,  and 

[282] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


his  last  backward  glance  found  the  quiet 
of  the  picture  unbroken ;  again  it  was  a 
page  from  the  Greenaway  book. 

He  reached  the  terrace ;  laughter  and 
applause  from  the  piazza  caught  his  ear. 
Fresh  from  the  atmosphere  he  had  left, 
he  stared  in  amazement  at  the  scene  be 
fore  him. 

Swift  figures  were  scudding  from  one 
to  another  of  the  four  great  elms  that 
marked  out  a  natural  rectangle  on  the 
smooth  side  lawn. 

"  Puss  !  puss  !  Here,  puss  !  "  a  high 
voice  called,  and  a  tall  slender  girl  in  a 
swish  of  lace  and  pink  draperies  rushed 
across  one  side  of  the  square.  A  portly 
trousered  figure  essayed  to  gain  the  tree 
she  had  left,  but  a  romping  girl  in  white 
caught  him  easily,  while  Mrs.  Dud,  the 
tail  of  her  gown  thrown  over  her  arm, 
skimmed  triumphantly  across  to  her 
partner's  tree. 

"  One  more,  one  more,  colonel.  You 
can't  give  up,  now  you're  caught !  One 

[283] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


more  before  we  go  in  !  "  called  the  pink 
girl. 

"Here's  Mr.  Varian.  Come  and  help 
us  out  —  the  colonel's  beaten!"  added 
Mrs.  Dud. 

"  Here,  puss  !  here,  puss  !  "  With 
excited  little  shrieks  and  laughs  they 
dashed  by,  the  colonel  making  ineffec 
tual  grabs  at  their  elusive  skirts.  Varian 
shook  his  head  good-naturedly. 

"  Too  late,  too  late  !  "  he  called  back, 
and  taking  pity  on  the  puffing,  purple 
colonel,  he  bore  him  off. 

"Thank  God!  I'm  just  about  winded! 
I'd  have  dropped  in  my  tracks,"  com 
plained  the  rescued  man,  breathing  hard 
as  they  rounded  the  shrubbery.  In  the 
corner  two  figures,  half  seen  in  the  dark, 
leaned  toward  each  other  an  impercep 
tible  moment.  The  colonel  laughed 
contentedly. 

"  When  I  see  that  sort  of  thing,  I 
think  we've  made  a  mistake  —  eh, 
Varian  ?  "  he  said,  half  serious.  "  It's 

[284] 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


a  poor  job,  getting  old  alone.  Live  at 
the  club,  visit  here  and  there,  make 
yourself  agreeable  to  get  asked  again, 
nobody  to  care  if  you're  sick,  always 
play  the  other  fellow's  game — little 
monotonous  after  a  while,  eh  ? " 

Varian  nodded.  "  Right  enough,"  he 
said, 

"  Different  ending  to  their  route  !  " 
suggested  the  colonel,  jerking  his  elbow 
back  toward  the  two  in  the  shrubbery. 

"  That's  it ! "  The  answer  was  laconic, 
but  the  pictures  that  swept  through  his 
brain  took  on  a  precision  and  color  that 
half  frightened  him. 

He  had  no  idea  how  frequently  he 
dropped  in  at  the  little  court  behind  the 
hedge  after  that.  Sometimes  he  sat  and 
mused  alone  there;  more  than  once  he 
took  a  surreptitious  afternoon  nap.  He 
developed  a  dormant  fancy  for  garden 
ing,  and  walked  with  his  new-old  friend 
contentedly  among  the  deserted  garden 
paths.  He  studied  her  hair  especially, 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


wondering  why  it  was  that  the  little 
tender  flecks  of  white  attracted  him  so. 
At  dinner  he  secretly  tried  to  rouse  in 
himself  the  same  desire  to  stroke  the 
gleaming  silver  fleece,  high-dressed, 
puffed,  and  ornamented  with  jet,  of  the 
woman  opposite  him,  whose  hair,  some 
what  prematurely  turned  snowy,  had  won 
her  a  great  vogue  among  her  friends. 
But  he  never  succeeded.  She  was  abso 
lutely  too  effective.  She  turned  the 
simplest  gathering  to  a  fancy-dress  ball, 
he  decided. 

He  had  supposed  that  it  was  the 
quaint  privacy  of  their  acquaintance  that 
charmed  him  particularly — the  feeling  of 
an  almost  double  existence ;  but  when 
Mrs.  Dud,  who,  he  afterwards  reflected, 
was  of  course  omniscient,  restrained  her 
self  no  longer,  and  thanked  him  with  a 
pretty  sincerity  for  his  delicate  and  ap 
preciated  courtesy,  intimating  charmingly 
that  she  realized  the  personal  motive,  a 
veil  suddenly  dropped.  He  gasped, 

[286] 


MRS.   DUD'S    SISTER 


shook  himself,  colored  a  little,  and  met 
her  eye. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  so  kind  as  you 
think,"  he  said,  a  little  awkwardly. 
"  I've  been  an  old  fool,  I  see.  Do  you 
think — -is  that  the  way  she  looks  at  it?" 

"Mary?"  said  Mrs.  Dud,  wonder- 
ingly.  "Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Why?" 

The  naive  egotism  of  the  answer  only 
threw  a  softer  light  on  the  picture  that 
had  grown  to  fill  his  thoughts.  He 
smiled  inscrutably. 

"  Because  in  that  case  it  is  due  to  her 
to  undeceive  her,"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad 
I  have  entertained  her.  I  should  like 
to  have  the  opportunity  to  do  so  in 
definitely.  Do  you  think  there's  a 
chance  for  me?" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  asked 
his  hostess,  in  unassumed  stupefaction. 

"  I  mean,  do  you  think  she  would 
marry  me  ? "  Varian  brought  out 
plumply.  "  Is  there  —  was  there  ever 
anybody  else?" 

[287] 


MRS.    DUD'S    SISTER 


For  one  instant  Mrs.  Dud  lost  her 
poise  ;  in  her  eyes  he  almost  saw  more 
than  she  meant ;  the  sheer,  flat  blow  of 
it  levelled  her  for  a  breath  to  the  plane 
of  other  and  ordinary  women.  But  even 
as  he  thought  it,  it  was  gone.  She  put 
out  her  hand;  she  smiled;  she  shook  her 
finger  at  him. 

"  I  think,  my  friend,  she  would  be  a 
fool  not  to  marry  you,"  she  answered 
him,  clear-eyed;  "and  there  was  never," 
her  tone  was  too  sweet,  he  thought,  to 
carry  but  one  meaning — pleasure  for  him, 
"there  was  never  anybody  else!" 

Varian  walked  straight  to  the  garden. 
She  was  training  a  fiery  wall  of  nas 
turtiums  with  firm  white  fingers.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  he  was  ready  to 
give  up  the  tally-ho,  and  the  Berkshires, 
and  the  scramble  of  pretty  girls  for  the 
place  beside  him,  to  sit  quietly  and  watch 
her  among  her  flowers. 

"I'm  getting  old — old!"  he  said  to 
himself,  but  he  said  it  with  a  smile. 


MRS.    DUD'S   SISTER 


For  he  knew  that  no  boy's  heart  ever 
beat  more  swiftly,  no  boy's  tongue  ever 
sought  more  excitedly  to  find  the  right 
words.  But  when  he  faced  her  a  little 
doubt  chilled  him:  she  was  so  calm  and 
complete,  in  her  sunny,  busy,  balanced 
life,  that  he  feared  to  disturb  that  sweet 
placidity.  With  an  undercurrent  of  fear, 
a  sudden  realization  that  he  had  no  more 
the  blessed  egotism  of  youth  to  drive 
him  on,  he  walked  beside  her,  outwardly 
content,  at  heart  a  little  solitary.  At 
some  light  question  he  turned  and  faced 
her. 

"You  could  not  have  all  the  green 
houses,  but  there  could  be  plenty  of 
flowers,"  he  said  pleadingly. 

"Flowers?     Where?"  she  asked. 

"  Wherever  we  lived,"  he  answered. 
"  And  oh,  Mary,  I  think  we  could  be 
happy  together !  Don't  say  no  ! "  as 
she  shrank  a  little.  "  Don't,  Mary,  for 
heaven's  sake  !  I  care  too  much  —  I 
care  terribly.  I  am  too  old  a  man  to 

[289] 


MRS.   DUD'S   SISTER 


care  so  much  and  —  lose.  .  .  .  There, 
there,  my  dear  girl,  never  mind.  I 
can  bear  it,  of  course.  Only  I  didn't 
know  I'd  planned  it  all  out  so,  and — 
But  never  mind.  I  was  going  to  have  a 
bay-window  full  of —  " 

He  turned  away  from  her  for  a  mo 
ment.  But  her  hand  was  on  his  arm. 

cc  We  can  plan  it  out  together/'  she 
said. 

He  knew  how  she  would  blush ;  he 
had  even  dared  to  think  how  directly  her 
clear  gray  eyes  would  meet  his — her  sky- 
ness  was  never  hesitation — but  he  had 
not  dreamed  how  soft  her  hair  could  be. 


[290] 


BOOKS  BY  JOSEPHINE   DASKAM 

MIDDLE  AGED  LOVE  STORIES 

izmo,  $1.25 

r  I  AHESE  seven  stories,  considered  as  sincere 
i  studies  of  her  subject,  have  an  impor 
tance  fully  equal  to  their  interest  as  love  tales 
of  a  quite  unusual  nature  and  a  quality  their 
author's  own.  It  is  a  book  that  no  one  at  all 
interested  in  Miss  Daskam's  growing  career 
can  afford  to  overlook. 

WHOM  THE  GODS  DESTROYED 

CONTENTS 

WHOM  THE  GODS  DESTROYED 

A  WIND  FLOWER 

WHEN  PIPPA  PASSED 

THE  BACKSLIDING  OF  HARRIET  BLAKE 

A  BAYARD  OF  BROADWAY 

A  LITTLE  BROTHER  OF  THE  BOOKS 

THE  MAID  OF  THE  MILL 

THE  TWILIGHT  GUESTS 

"  She  writes  like  no  one  else.  Her  materials 
are  often  of  the  slenderest,  but  her  art  makes 
one  forget  that.  There  is  atmosphere  in  all 
her  stories.  The  humor  is  unmistakable,  but 
subtle  and  lambent.  Miss  Daskam's  art  baffles 
analysis,  but  there  is  no  doubt  about  the  rogu 
ish  quality  of  its  femininity.  In  her  'Whom 
the  Gods  Destroyed'  she  is  at  her  best." — 
N.  T.  Sun.  $1.50. 


BOOKS  BY  JOSEPHINE   DASKAM 

THE  IMP  AND  THE  ANGEL 

Illustrated  by  B.  J.  ROSENMEYER 
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miring  an  audience  through  her  stories  of  child 
life,  that  she  needs  no  introduction  to  readers  of 
the  new  and  clever." — The  Atlantic  Monthly. 
$1.10  net,  postage  10  cents. 

FABLES  FOR  THE  FAIR 

"An  exceedingly  attractive  little  volume, 
both  in  appearance  and  quality,  is  '  Fables  for 
the  Fair/  by  Josephine  Dodge  Daskam,  which 
contains  25  fables  of  a  distinctly  modern  type, 
more  or  less  satirical  in  character,  and  all  bright, 
clever  and  original." — Boston  Journal. 

$1.00  net,  postage  8  cents. 

SISTER'S  VOCATION 
"  It  is  bright,  entertaining  and  wholesome. 
Her  girls  are  not  all  captivating  creatures  when 
first  introduced,  but  their  redeeming  qualities 
are  brought  out  with  skill.  There  are  nine  of 
the  stories,  and  each  one  has  a  distinctive 
charm . ' ' — Sa ?i  Francisco  Argonaut.  $1.25. 

SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 

"A  highly  interesting  and  picturesque  young 
person  the  Smith  College  girl  as  the  author 
presents  her  seems  to  be.  She  seems  to  be 
just  simply  girl,  and  she  could  certainly  be 
nothing  nicer." — New  York  Sun.  $1.50. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK 


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